


Q-Squared

by outside_the_box



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Crack, F/M, M/M, Multiple Crossovers, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-29 13:45:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 49,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8492089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outside_the_box/pseuds/outside_the_box
Summary: Post Spectre. When James Bond AUs begin to collide, multiple Bonds and multiple Qs must work together to stop the evil force behind it, and make it home to their own AU's in time…WIP.





	1. Track A

**Author's Note:**

> 90% of this fic is Bond-Universe-centric, but there will be crossover elements from Sherlock, Kingsman, Avengers, Gilmore Girls and the IT Crowd.
> 
> This is a re-telling of Peter David's Star Trek novelization "Q-Squared." I'm following the book’s general plot (Track A/B/C), and borrowing a few lines of dialog.
> 
> Unbeta-ed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Assume Nothing

Track A

"Do you have a moment, Mr. Holmes?"

Alec Trevelyan had stood at the entrance to Shaun's cube, all winning smile, and an air of ‘I'm-a-double oh, I-could-kill-you-but-I'm-much-too-enjoying-casual-Friday.’ His hair was a few inches too long, he hadn't shaved, and he was wearing honest-to-God blue jeans. Like a human being, instead of a masochistic killing machine. Unless it was all some spy craft mind game. It was probably some masochistic spy craft mind game.

"Yes," Shaun said, somewhat stiffly. "Of course."

Shaun spared one glance to the dozen laptops in his corner–he was less than 30% through re-imaging, all of them containing spyware introduced through kitten email attachments. Those email chains were more contagious than the flu around MI6, and represented the better part of Shaun's useless, pathetic week. So technically yes, he had a moment. Hours. Days. Hell, he might not get any meaningful work thrown his way for weeks.

If his visitor detected Shaun's reticence—and he was a double oh, so of course he did—he didn't let it show. "I'm rubbish with formalities. Can I call you Shaun?"

Shaun winced. "What can I do for you Mr. Trevelyan?" Damn. "Sorry." He pinched his nose. Damn again. "I'm sorry. What can I do for you, 007?"

Now Trevelyan was the stiff one. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. So, he wasn't quite used to the new designation then, was he? That made two them of them, Shaun thought. Or three of them, if you counted James. It didn't matter how courteous Trevelyan had been to him in the few days since they had met. Calling anyone else 007 tasted like bile. God, this whole situation was a steaming pile of—

"Dunno if you heard—from Q-Branch that is—but they're having a hell of a lot of trouble decrypting the IRC chatter coming out of the Moscow cell." Trevelyan paused. He dropped his voice. "They need your help. I need your help."

The conspiratorial tone was like Deja vu. It felt so familiar, so right, to scheme with the double ohs on some mischievous intrigue. He could envision his own cheeky response. Could imagine putting in James back in the field to secretly help Trevelyan pull off some rogue mission. And M would forgive them all in end, only because they had succeeded spectacularly. Shaun had missed it all, terribly. He had not so long ago been the Quartermaster of MI6. His dreams had come true, for two scant months. But that was before Silva.

He was just old plain old Shaun Holmes again, Helpdesk grunt. Now and forever more, if M had anything to say about it. And Trevelyan's current request, his implied trust and faith in Shaun's abilities, felt almost cruel.

Shaun schooled his features and adopted his go-to Helpdesk voice. "I'm sorry, Sir. The IT branch is not authorized to handle the materials you're referring to. I'm sure the Q-Branch will provide you with everything you need." Shaun heard the hairline fracture in his voice as he said 'Q-Branch.' His branch. Even after a year stuck in IT hell, it was still his branch. Except that it wasn't.

Some days, the only thing that kept Shaun from going completely insane was knowing that R was finally getting to show people he was a lot more than a minion-of-the-week. R was capable. He would crack the IRC channels, even if it took a bit longer.

He blinked when he realized Trevelyan was still there. Trevelyan's grin was gone. He looked as sullen as Shaun felt. "Right." It’s not like the new 007 could complain that the former Quartermaster was following his rigid orders to stay the hell away from Q-Branch. Trevelyan just stayed there, head bowed, like he had been kicked. Oh hell, Trevelyan hadn't asked to steal his own friend's double oh designation.

"I really am sorry 007." It was first sincere thing Shaun Holmes, formerly Q, had said to Trevelyan. "James asked about you, the other night."

"Yeah?" Trevelyan instantly sounded worried. "I haven't talked to him, since…" Trevelyan ran a hand through his too-long hair, and paced in front of Shaun's cube. "I've really been chickening out about it, actually."

Shaun nodded and chuckled. "So has he," he said. Double ohs and their feelings…. "He doesn't blame you."

"He's not pissed?"

"Oh, always. But not at you. You didn't pick the damn number."

"You know, I always thought we'd be double ohs together." He sighed and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "I'll stop talking now."

The boyish and down-to-earth thing may have been spy craft to set Shaun at ease, but it was working. He seemed real, seemed like kind of man who made friends as easily as he breathed, who always had a joke on his tongue and good beer in his fridge. Of course he and James had been destined to be super-secret-agent BFFs. It seemed like exactly the kind of perfect future that fate would snatch from them all, just for spite.

It all would have been easier if Shaun could have hated Trevelyan for taking Jame's designation, or hated R for taking his own post, or even Monaghan for demoting both he and James. But it was never that simple, was it? Shaun stopped himself from speaking further, knowing that whatever came out next would reek of frustration, or his bitterness at the way his career had floundered. It was all just so…

"Wrong," Trevelyan finished for him.

Shaun's shoulders sagged. He hadn't even realized he was talking aloud. Maybe he should just quit.

"Don't quit."

"Are you a mind reader?"

"Double oh, reading people, master of manipulation, yada yada yada." Oh yes, Trevelyan was a sassy one. He and James would have wreaked havoc on the same mission, Shaun thought. Maybe it was better for Monaghan's nerves, that it had never come to pass. "I'll see if there's anything IT can do to assist Q-Branch in the investigation," he said suddenly. Perhaps if he offered, someone would finally remember why they had promoted him to Quartermaster to begin with: he was good at his job. "And you can call me Shaun."

Trevelyan grinned. "That's the spirit. Call me Alec."

* * *

Moneypenny wiped the dirt off her face and got back on her feet. The explosion had her ears ringing and her stomach queasy, but there was no time to dwell on it. The two Kingsman Knights, 100 meters ahead, breached the West entrance and she was right behind them. The combination of the lingering flames and the midday African sun were enough to cover her face in a fresh sheen of sweat. But she didn't slow down.

Merlin was in her ear. "Galahad and Gawain, keep forward to the end of the hall. Guinevere, left 10 meters ahead, three hostiles with pistols."

She took them out.

"Good," Merlin said. Lancelot has secured the server room. We're downloading everything. Provisor’s office should be on your right. Bring back any physical media."

"Copy." Moneypenny strode down the harrow hall, ignoring the flickering lights that had been damaged in the explosion. ^p The last of the hostiles were pinned down on the East side of the building, and from the sounds of it, getting ready to make their last stand. Her Kingsman colleagues would oblige them, if that was their intention.

A light from under one of the other doors caught her attention. A small shadow moved across it.

Moneypenny halted her steps and held her breath. The room's occupant had no doubt heard her approach, but there was no reason to give herself away any more than she already had.

She kicked down the door, ducking low to the ground and missing the ‘pop pop’ of two silenced shots. She kicked her lone assailant straight in the balls—the aim was more luck than she would later admit. The hostile scowled and hissed but stayed upright. He was a beefy man, nearly two meters tall. And not dumb. He knocked her gun out of her hands when he should have been doubled over crying Uncle.

Moneypenny tried to keep focus and keep calm as a wooden chair smashed over her back. Merlin was yammering in her ear now but she didn't hear all the words. She would NOT give up. And she was fast enough to duck his next blows.

Her eyes widened when he drew the small blade from his sleeve.

Actually, that wasn't a bad idea at all.

He moved in for the kill, just as she tapped up her heels together, exposing the blade in the toe of her shoe, and kicked. Her toe collided with his heart. His blade made contact with her right flank, but she couldn't feel it yet.

Seconds later, he was decaying like a zombie, and she counted herself lucky to get away with a flesh wound.

"Guinevere, come in."

"Sorry, Merlin. One hostile down. Not sure why this one had stayed behind. He had to know hiding would be useless, and I don't see an obvious target of value."

"Talk to us, Gwen. Are you alright?" Galahad, aka Harry Hart, had clearly finished wiping the floor with his dance partners.

"Yes," she said distantly. The fun part was over. She inspected what was visible in the office. Not much, just some ancient computers and a rudimentary first aid station.

Eggsy was the first in after her, running so fast he held out his arms to keep himself from running into a wall. He looked behind him with a smile. God, he was having too much fun. No wonder Harry seemed ten years younger these days.

Sure enough, Hart was there in short order. He looked just slightly sour at the drop of sweat on his forehead. Oh good god, they had raced here. Like a couple of children.

"Out of breath, old man?" Eggsy ribbed him.

"I think I proved last night that I have no shortcomings holding my breath," he said, with a touch of evil.

Eggsy coughed up a lung and Harry's smug smile fell naturally back on his face.

Moneypenny eyed the back door in the office. "Figures you two would come around after all the action's been had. Come on; help me figure out what this guy was still doing here." She followed a back hallway into an interrogation room. Not like a police interrogation room, naturally. More like a torture chamber.

"Woah…" Eggsy trailed off.

There was a figure, strapped to a chair in the center of the room. The head fell limply forward. He was completely naked, but his skin was shredded, and partially burned. The room smelled like death.

"Holy Jesus. Who was he?"

Harry stepped forward and reached out his hand. He gently moved the corpse's head back, to better see his face, when the head snapped back to life and white eyes opened.

Moneypenny sucked in her breath. Eggsy yelped.

They kicked into gear right away. The man in front of them was still alive, the poor bastard. Upon seeing their faces—faces which were not that of his torturers—he hung his head back on his chest, and resumed shallow breaths. Moneypenny raced to the first aid station in front, realizing that the implements had probably only been used to keep him alive longer, to protract his pain. She shook her head in disgust. She pressed a thick white bandage against his side, and his eyes lingered on her wound, silently questioning.

There was something momentarily chivalrous about it. "Don't you worry about me," she said quietly. He dropped his gaze, assenting.

"I'm Moneypenny," she said. "We're here to rescue you." It sounded daft the minute she said it. He was hurt not stupid. He had probably figured that part out. But she could he appreciated the words. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. Before she could think to get him some water, he had passed out again.

The assault was over. The hostiles confirmed dead. Merlin would have a medivac helicopter there in fifteen minutes to bring them back to the city. Officials from the British embassy would take him from there.

"Oi, how do you know he's British? He hasn't said a word."

Harry, Moneypenny and Harry watched as the medivac crew loaded the man on the stretcher. "I know his face," Harry said. "It was some time ago. Five years, or seven. He was here on a military security summit when the convoy was ambushed. Missing, presumed dead."

"What's his name?" Moneypenny asked.

"Mallory. Gareth Mallory."

* * *

Moss and Roy had invited Shaun to an impromptu work outing to see that Laura Nightly play. Never in his life. For one, his boss Jen was already pissed at Roy and Moss for inviting themselves along to what was SUPPOSED to be her date with Phillip from 6. Poor Jen. Poor Moss, when he figured out exactly what the play was. Poor Roy, when he figured out exactly the play was. And then poor Jen again, when she realized that Phillip from 6 had definitely NOT invited her on a date at all, because that man was definitely gay.

Shaun had just said goodbye to an almost empty bullpen, presuming Richmond was lurking behind the walls somewhere, and set off home. The December breeze was just a little too snappy for him and he stuffed his hands deeper in his pockets. After taking the tube back to his flat—he didn't bother with decoy flats and circuitous routes anymore, he wasn't anybody important anymore—he turned the key and opened the door.

Oh my god, his kitchen cabinets were covered in Anthrax. "What the hell is that?!" Or maybe it was cocaine. Oh god, or worse, what if—

James came out from the bedroom, celebrating casual Friday with his most casual sweatpants (that probably cost 500 pounds). And an apron. And a lingering spot of white power on his beautiful blond head.

"Oh no."

James scowled.

"Honey, you cooked?"

"Aren't you supposed to be at that ridiculous play?"

How did he even know about that? Roy and Moss had only invited him hours ago. You know what? Shaun wasn't falling down that rabbit hole. James had tried to cook. Again.

Shaun started to laugh and laugh and nearly fell over on the couch in his guffaws. "I'm sorry." He steadied himself, went to the kitchen, and threw himself into his lover's arms. His ridiculous, lean, taught, sexy as hell arms. He was still laughing when he felt James forgive him and hug him back. Shaun pulled away to see James's irritated, and slightly embarrassed face. Not many people got to see the embarrassed face. "What are we making?"

"A birthday cake."

"She'd like one from the bakery better."

"Sookie and Luke always make her a cake, in Stars Hollow. And how many times am I going to get the chance, anyway?" James' daughter Rory was only studying abroad at Oxford this one year, her junior year. Then it would be back to Yale, and Connecticut, and her life with her mother. James had been thrilled to have her here in London. Honestly, Shaun thought it was the only way that James was dealing with his separation anxiety from the double oh program. He loved Rory unconditionally, since the moment she was born, and had always been the dad who sent the best presents, and showed up out of the blue (usually when missions to America came his way) to ride into town with a classic car and a flirty overture to Miss Patty. Now, he had one year to be more, to be the perfect Mr. Dad and damn if he was going to fail.

"You're adorable," Shaun teased. "Is she coming over tonight?"

"No, she's with Jess," his face was back to a scowl. Not a deadly one, but the scowl of a father who hated her daughter's boyfriend. "I don't know why you hacked and destroyed all those perfectly good bugs I planted at his flat. It was disgusting, and I'm the only who had to set foot in it."

"You shouldn't spy on Rory."

"I'm spying on the delinquent she's dating. It’s for her own good." He appeared to have no idea that everything out of mouth was a cliché.

Shaun dipped a finger into the creamy brown batter in the mixing bowl. "So the kids are away? It’s just the adults tonight?" He slowly twirled his finger, then brought it to James's lips. "Just the two dad's tonight," James confirmed, sucking on the tip. And God, Shaun's heart practically exploded because damn if the two of them getting demoted, together, hadn't led to the best damn family Shaun had ever had, and—

Shaun moaned. Every time James came near him it felt like hot, bright sparks. Could James feel them too? Had he ever asked?

"Less thinking," James whispered. "You never stop thinking."

"One of us has to." Shit. James paused and narrowed his eyes. Shaun tried not to crack up, but then James snorted and laughed into Shaun's hair. "That's it," he said. He playfully dragged him to the bedroom, twisting his fingers in Shaun's shirt. "Someone has to show some manners." And several times over the night Shaun thought maybe fate wasn't so cruel after all.

* * *

Shaun left James in the bedroom, happily snoring away. When James had first been demoted to nine to five desk duty, he had tossed and turned in his sleep. Other nights he was flat on his back, rigid, like a creepy Dracula-James at rest. The tiniest sound from Mothra, their domestic guard-feline, had him bolted out of bed and on his feet. Sometimes the loaded gun was _actually in his hand_. Then weeks became months. Rory came to London with her innocent smile and shiny hair and touristy to-do lists. That’s not to say that adjusting to a more domestic life was easy. Just ask the Tesco machine the one time James had attempted self-checkout for some cereal and milk. James had nearly pulled out his Walther and shot it. But things had gotten better.

Shaun liked to think he had played a non-insignificant role in that too. What had started as bonding over mutual career train wreckage had turned to fucking had turned to (one-sided) stalking and trespassing, had turned to friends with benefits, had turned to 'this-is-obviously-a-relationship-we've-just-byapssed-the-need-to-say-it-aloud.' Actually, the part when James started to actually talk to him—just as a friend—was when Q knew he was a goner. James told Shaun how he liked his coffee in the morning, why the DB 10 was superior to the DB 8, the way Rory's eyes reminded him of his mother's, where his top two bolt holes were in London, what was wrong with any piece of pop music he played, and who his favorite childhood icon was (Sean Connery). Sometimes James couldn't shut up. He could be snarky, or deadpan, or facetious, or just plain funny. Shaun loved every minute of it. The truth was, he could hardly reconcile the reputation of James Bond, 007, lady’s man, killer of evildoers, high-functioning-alcoholic, with the warm, loyal, totally human boyfriend he had been living with. Most nights, their little domestic arrangement was damned near perfect.

That's not to say that Shaun didn't notice the occasional empty liquor bottles, signs that James still drank alone. And some nights, when they watched the aftermath of some terrorist attack on the news, James’ eyes deadened, and he lay on the couch for hours, his head in Shaun's lap. He still missed active duty terribly, Shaun suspected. But he wasn't about to jump off a cliff either. Most days, Shaun was sure that he and Rory were enough to keep James happy, if not totally fulfilled.

Sometimes he wondered: if Silva hadn't crawled out the dirt, if he was still Quartermaster and Bond was still 007, would he and James still be together? ‘Secret-agent and quartermaster’ boyfriends? Probably not, right? Neither one of them would have the time, for one. And Shaun secretly thought that a dead-end career was worth the best relationship of his life.

He went into his home office and pulled the door shut, so the blue glow of the monitors wouldn't light up the whole flat. There was nothing special about tonight's bit of insomnia; just a need to read. Minutes later, four monitors were fired up and all of Shaun's attention was online. You could take a man away from his Q-Branch, but you couldn't take the…well, you know the rest.

In the back of his mind, he remembered Alec's request for help decrypting the IRC chatter coming out of a terrorist cell MI6 had been watching outside of Moscow. But he didn't dare start that right now. That would take time. He was embarrassingly sucked in by Weekly-World-News theories flying around the public channels.

It hadn't all gone mainstream yet—you wouldn't see this on the evening news—but for days, underground news organizations had been reporting…well…strange things.

A woman in an elevator had sworn that when the doors opened, the entire building had vanished, and if she had taken one step forward she would have been in a 35-story freefall. She pressed the button for 36, the doors closed, and when they opened again, floor 36 materialized normally. No one, no one normal at least, believed her.

Another was certain that her only son somehow had a secret twin, because she had taped her son in two places at once. When she went to show her husband the tape, it was blank.

A man went down to the carpark from his office, and right in his spot his Audi had transformed into a classic American Camaro. When he returned with the security guard to demand explication, his Audi was back in its spot.

To Shaun, it all sounded like nut-job-ery. People went mad every day. People took drugs and had psychotic breaks and wanted their 15 minutes of fame on Twitter.

But something about this felt different. There were too many of these stories, some of them even from IRC users he had known and trusted for years. Some of them were too afraid to tell their stories to loved ones, afraid they would be locked up. That left the Interwebs as their only outlet. The more he read, the more he became aware that the hairs on his arm were standing on end. It occurred to him to call his brother—many of these crazies had inevitably looked up Sherlock Holmes, and at least some of them must have managed to last five minutes without getting rudely dismissed. Sherlock must have noticed a pattern, had some theory…

The door behind him creaked, and Shaun saw James in the rearview mirror attached to the side of his monitor. Shaun spun around. "Hey."

"Mothra tried to kill me," James said, yawning. "She sat on my face while I was sleeping."

"Well, you might have been asking for it with Godzilla pajamas."

James glared, but his lips were curved upwards. "You bought me this, you tricky boffin." He held the green fabric between two fingers. "You coming back to bed?" He stretched his arms, and enjoyed another good yawn.

James was such a physical creature. He didn't even realize it sometimes. Shaun bet if he let this conversation go on another ten minutes James would be doing push-ups on his floor while they talked, and James wouldn't even have realized it until morning.

"Can't, IRC is on fire tonight."

"Eyersee? Where's that, the Middle East?" James stilled his stretched arms and his eyes sharpened.

Shaun smirked. "No, I-R-C is a network of online chatrooms." He added, "When I say it’s on fire, it’s like when a teenage girl says her phone is blowing up." He couldn't resist, James was so gullible to anything approaching a pop culture reference.

"Teenagers are blowing up their phones now? Do I need to worry about Rory and Jess?" James frowned again and to his credit Shaun couldn't even tell who was deadpanning whom. He laughed and James joined him. "Come back to bed," James said.

"Make me."

Shaun was suddenly foisted out of his chair into the air. Oops, wrong thing to say. He wrapped his legs around James, his torso so firm it could have been a tree trunk, and felt his back meet the wall and James lips at his throat. Ooh, right thing to say.

And he forgot all about calling Sherlock.

* * *

Shaun hummed as he walked into the building. Though he would never admit it, he sort of couldn't wait to find out how the previous night's work outing had gone. He got to the third floor bullpen—all beige walls _and_ beige carpets and no hint of natural light and not enough power extensions by half. Moss was at his desk with a cheery smile, Roy was hunched towards his monitor in a clear 'leave me alone' posture, and Jen's office door was closed.

He tried to keep a straight face. "Did you like the play?" Shaun asked.

Roy stared at him. "You knew what it was, didn't you, you filthy bastard?" he said in his Irish brood. He looked more traumatized than angry.

Yes, Shaun had known the play they had all set off to see was "Gay! A Gay Musical." Weren't all musicals already gay? It was bound to be the gayest musical ever made.

"It was set in the eighties!" Moss said, scandalized. Of course _that_ was what had scandalized Moss.

Shaun couldn't help it, he cracked up. "Oh, I definitely knew. It couldn't be that bad, right?"

Roy stabbed his fingers into his keyboard, making a huge clacking noise with each keystroke. "No, I just ended up on a one-way bus ride to Manchester with a troop of gay disabled men, Moss picked up some tip money pretending to be the house bartender, and Phillip from 6 is definitely gay. Jen doesn't want to talk about it."

God, those three lived inside some kind of sitcom, Shaun thought. He couldn't wait to tell James over lunch. James thought little of his fellow IT dunderheads, but Shaun’s stories could usually be counted on to get a smile out of him.

Mid-morning, Shaun got a call from Trevelyan. Alec, he corrected himself. Alec asked Shaun to meet him in Q-Branch—for convenience he had said, barely bothering to make the lie sound plausible. But IT was at the bottom of the MI6 food chain and he couldn't exactly disagree with a double oh.

Walking into Q-Branch, clean and bustling, with a gentle hum of processing power, made Shaun feel like he was home. It was a fleeting idyll, though. Alec waived him over from R's office in the corner.

"Mr. Holmes," Alec said formally.

"007. Q."

"Thank you for coming down so quickly to reinstall the printer drivers," R said. Shaun just couldn't quite bring himself to think of R as the new Q. R obviously had the job title—it just hurt a little too much.

Shaun demurred. "I live to serve."

They shut the door. No one in Q-Branch would believe any of that, but it wouldn't look too bad on a security feed.

"Everyone's in MI6 is buzzing about the big news today." Alec said.

"About Phillip from 6?"

"What? No. About Garth Mallory. The Lieutenant Colonel in the SAS who went missing in South Africa five years ago?"

Shaun internally squirmed. Of course they wouldn't be talking about stupid IT gossip. These were some of the smartest, toughest professionals in the world. They had _actual_ news to discuss, lives to save. Shaun tried to remember what it was like when belonged to this world. "They found his body?"

"They found him alive," R said. "Some kind of miracle."

Alec was more subdued. "Five years in captivity…The miracle he was probably hoping for was death."

"Did we find him?" Shaun asked.

"No, that's the interesting part. It was that little independent group over on Saville Row."

"Kingsman tailors? Arthur and the Knights and all? I thought that was an urban legend among you double ohs."

Alec drummed his fingers. "Well M's never officially acknowledged them, until now. But one of the rescuers is escorting him back here to be debriefed in 24 hours. We'll finally meet one. What's his name, again?"

"Moneypenny," R said.

"Odd name for a gentleman spy," Shaun remarked. And Alec and R nodded. It was extraordinary news though, to recover someone so long since presumed dead. If James Bond could work a desk job, a desk job in an overflow building three blocks away at that, maybe this Mallory could build himself a life again, with time…Stranger things had happened.

Speaking of strange things, he realized he had never called Sherlock. He added that back to the top of his mental queue.

They got down to business soon after, R filling in the details on the network sniffers that were picking up the IRC communication from Russia, and Alec providing the operational context. It wouldn't be easy to involve Shaun. He didn't exactly have his preferred software on his IT workstation, and visits to Q-Branch would raise flags upstairs. After Silva's multiple network intrusions—the first that preceded the explosion while M was out of the building, and the second virus from his laptop—and the resulting the loss of life—more than sixty MI6 personnel in all—everyone involved was on a shit list. Shaun and James, he always reckoned, were deemed too risky to simply fire and let loose on the world. Maybe M thought they'd team up and pull their own Silva in 10 years. What better way to keep them both under her thumb than demotions severe enough to satisfy the political bosses, but with just enough hope for redemption that they wouldn't quit altogether?

God, Monaghan was a bitch. He could crack this decryption in an hour with his rootkit and some serious CPU power. Wasn't that serving the public's interest better than his exile?

The three of them were all discussing the details of how to pull off this scheme when two simple chimes rang out from R's computer.

Shaun tensed. R tensed. Alec reacted in kind, without knowing what was happening.

Q-Branch was coming to life. Alec got a text and was on his feet in an instant.

"We have an intruder. White male. One sublevel below. Security in pursuit." Alex snapped open the door and spared one last glance towards Shaun. "You should get back to IT. You'll be safer there."

Shaun and R exchanged their own looks. "I can be of more use here. Go."

* * *

Alec was down the stairs to the next sublevel inside of sixty seconds. There must been two or three other double ohs in the building who were on their way, in addition to the building security. And contrary to popular belief, the MI6 internal security were nothing resembling fat security guards. They were killers all. Whatever this intruder was after, he wasn't getting it.

He turned on the ear-piece he had swiped from Q-Branch on his way out. Q—the new Q not Shaun Holmes—was in his ear. "We got him on camera for a second in grid 8a."

"Who I am I looking for?"

The voice in his ear was silent. "Umm…you're not going to believe this…"

Suddenly Shaun, old Q, was on the line as well. "The sensor readings coming out of Lab 8 can't be right." His voice was urgent but Alec didn't understand why.

"I'll check it out, _after_ we catch this guy," Alec said.

"I swear the intruder looks like Tom Hiddleston," Q said.

"What?" Alec whispered.

The lights on the floor went out. Because he was on a sublevel, Alec was submerged in darkness. Pitch black. He stopped moving and felt with his left hand for a flashlight, while keeping his gun in his right hand. Bingo. He had a narrow LED beam to shine. The large room around him was the labs. It appeared empty but had too many desks and closets to be sure.

"Backup generators on that floor will be online in 30 seconds," Q said.

Alec heard footsteps. The lights were coming back on. He held his breath when the flicker started, prepared for the darkness to materialize into some ominous figure.

The lights came back on. The room was empty. Still. He lowered his weapons just an inch or two.

"I don't understand it," Q said. "Now he's in grid 8g. The cameras caught him for a second. But how did he get through the agents we have on guard in 8f?"

"Multiple intruders?" Alec asked.

"Negative." This time it was Shaun on the line. "I'm telling you, the readings coming out the lab are insane. Breaking-the-laws-of-physics-insane. Something bad is going on down there. You should evacuate."

Shaun may have been the smartest person on comms, but Alec was the newest double oh. He couldn't turn back now, like some baby-faced trainee. He headed toward grid 8g, only to have Q tell him the intruder had somehow appeared in 2a.

"That's on the other side of the floor. How did he get there in twenty seconds?!" Shaun was right. This was not normal. Alec felt the hairs on his arms stand on end.

And then the space in front of him was no longer empty. A flash of green, and then a man materialized right in front of him. Alec raised his gun so fast it wasn't even a conscious action, but the man, who wore an emerald green coat and carried a glowing staff, somehow dislodged it from his hands and threw it against the floor. But the man hadn't actually _done_ any of that. He had only pivoted his staff, and the rest had just happened, Alec realized. Like god damned telekinesis shit.

Alec could not give up so easily. He threw himself at the man, channeling considerable strength into what should have been a full-body blow. His shoulder hit the wall with a terrible 'thwack' and he fell to the ground in pain. When stood up, the stranger was a few meters away on the other side of the room. He had appeared and reappeared like…like magic.

People gave the double ohs plenty of crap for being outdated and staid. For being relics. But the job required a huge degree of adaptability, of dealing with ambiguous people and situations on the fly, often when their lives depended on it. So he didn't get too hung up on the magic part, not yet.

He was slightly more thrown that Q was right: this appeared to be Tom Hiddleston in some kind of costume. Hesitantly, he asked, "Mr. Hiddleston?"

The stranger's lips curled in a smile. "No."

Alec wasn't stupid enough to think that he was going manhandle some kind of supernatural Not-Tom-Hiddleston. He kept his Springfield up, but tried to keep his tone conversational. "My mistake. Would you like to tell me your name?"

The stranger took a moment to observe his surroundings, namely the empty lab. "I think I'm quite bored with bouncing around, looking for what I need. It’s far more appropriate to let you people simply come to me."

Alec shifted his weight from foot to foot. "What do you want?"

" _Who_ do I want, would be the more relevant question, Mr. Alec Trevelyan." His smiled again, showing more teeth. Like a predator.

And Alec found himself wishing that he had listened to Shaun after all.

* * *

"I want a clear and accurate status report, now." M had no need to yell. Any facial expression in her library of expressions—all slightly different frowns—had always provided enough motivation for people to do their jobs, and this time she had picked one of her most irritated frowns to boot.

Her chief of staff stood across from her desk and pressed a finger to his ear. "We believe its only one intruder ma'am, but he's moving around the Q-Branch sublevel too quickly to…"

"Too quickly to what?" She'd heard Kingsman agents were practically super-human in their speed, and that was her current suspicion. It couldn't be a coincidence that the one time she invited MI6's weird spy cousins into the mansion that all hell broke loose.

"Too quickly to be human, ma'am."

M didn't have a response for that. A verbal response at least. She felt a fury boiling inside that threatened to be unleashed in a very unprofessional way.

"Do better."

"Yes, ma''am. Power on the sublevel is restored. The unknown subject appears to be talking to 007."

"You had better not mean James Bond." She had limits.

"No, ma'am. Alec Trevelyan. They appear to be staying put."

"Has backup arrived?"

She looked to her monitor, expecting Q-Branch to patch her in to listen directly. This whole situation was unacceptable!

"Cameras are proving unreliable at the moment." He stared at her. "The intruder would like to speak to us. He says he'll stay still and wait, if we come to him."

M was not one to give into demands. Especially not from arrogant thugs who had broken into a secured government facility. So help her God if this was some double oh wannabe, thinking this was all an innovative way to advertise themselves for the job. Young people today. It was enough to have her reaching for own gun.

"It’s an unacceptable security risk," he said, partially oblivious to the depths of her outrage. "We don't have a good enough handle of what this man's capable of."

And damn if she was going to cave to her own chief of staff and play the cowardly bureaucrat. "Lead the way."

She didn't smile, but her frown was more a self-satisifed sort of frown when she heard the muttered response. "Oh crap."

* * *

"She really asked for me?" Shaun confirmed. "Shaun Holmes? The Not-Q?"

He was walking, sandwiched between two escorts who acted like their whole careers depended on saying as little as humanely possible. Their silence gave Shaun a moment to think. Before he had been yanked away, he had devoted his attention to the lab readings being synced to the mainframe. Those readings just weren't possible. It was an electromagnetic hurricane was storming around the sublevel. The hard drives down there were toast. They were really lucky anything at all was still working. The storm readings, viewed in a 3D model, weren't level and broad; they were narrow and fast. More like the whip of solar flare, instead of an all-consuming fog. What the hell was going on?

"What the hell is going on?" He didn't even have room to flail his arms. "Unless she used her CDROM tray as a coffee mug holder just to mess with me, I can't help you!"

The metaphorical curtain was pulled back. He saw M, her chief of staff, as well as Alec Trevelayan, R and a dozen security guards. They surrounded the man R swore looked like some celebrity, from movies that Shaun hadn't gotten around to seeing.

The stranger was dressed up, like Halloween. He looked like a comic book character actually, but Shaun couldn't place it. Everyone else in the room was too stiff for Shaun to hope he was a friendly nutter who got lost on the way to a convention.

Plus, if he was a human elecromagnetic storm-front, it was not time to relax yet. Shaun decided not to speak until spoken to.

"There's your little pet genius, now. Shame on your for trying to pass off a facsimile." He stared at R, whose eyes widened. "Only one more to go and we can begin. Where _is_ the house pit bull?"

"She's right over here," Shaun said curiously, tilting his head to M. Oh god. Shaun blanched. Oh god. He just couldn't help himself sometimes.

The man in the middle barked out a laugh. "Tony Stark has a case of sarcasm-Tourette’s too; you must be distantly related."

"Who?"

"Where is 007?" The stranger said. "We can't start the fun without him."

Shaun felt sick to his stomach. Thoughts of MI6 and Q-Branch and tech evaporated from his mind and all he could think was "must keep James safe, must keep James safe." He had never been happier that James was in that ugly overflow building three blocks away, with its sub-par vending machines and no parking and Sally from HR that had no idea what to do with James, and it was _three blocks away_ and that meant that James was safe. He let out his breath.

"I'm 007," Alec said, confident but not arrogant. "We're all here. Who are you?"

The stranger narrowed his eyes at Alec, like he could flay his skin and see into his soul. "Okay, why not? I am Loki, of Asgard. Son of Odin."

The room was silent.

"Oh, you mean Thor's brother?" Shaun asked. "Like the children's stories?"

Loki took two deliberate steps forward, towards Shaun, who was too scared to back up and unintentionally looked quite brave to stand his ground. "What do you know about it?"

Shaun could go actually on at length about the pitfalls of being the youngest child in any household, but held his tongue.

"You shouldn't have tried to stop me," Loki said, focusing only on Shaun. "You stupid, puny mortal. What _were_ you thinking?" His voice had risen to a yell.

"I'm sorry," Shaun said, trying to be as sincere as possible. "Are we acquainted?"

"Yes and no."

Monaghan seemed to have tired of being left out of the conversation for so long. "What are you intending to do here?" she demanded

"Oh," Loki seethed with rage. "Just you wait." But his rage was extinguished just as quickly as it had surfaced. He leaned to one side and cocked his ear, as if there were a sound only he could hear. Shaun saw dread in Loki's eyes.

"I'll be back." And then in a green flash, Loki was gone. Everyone left behind exchanged looks of curiosity, fear and anger. That was no deluded comic book fan. The man thought he was a Norse God. And he might have been telling the truth.

"Red alert," R said under his breath.

* * *

"So that's what I missed?" Bond asked skeptically.

Shaun had practically fled the building and ran the three blocks to check on James. One look at him and James had snapped back into agent mode. It was still a mindset, a suit, as easy to wear as breathing. Shaun was out of breath, wild-eyed, rambling about magnets and green lights and a vanishing man.

After confirming that Q-Branch was not testing new mind-altering substances on IT Guinea pigs ("I never authorized anything like that as Quartermaster - the rumors you double ohs spread about my branch are despicable!") Shaun had finally collapsed onto the chair in James' small office, exhausted. And about ten minutes later managed to relay the relevant parts of the story.

Bond had listened, and if it was anyone other than Shaun saying these things, he wouldn't have believed it. But he believed Shaun. He loved Shaun. It could be distracting just being around him. They sat next to each other now, on the two chairs in front of the desk, their knees gently knocking together.

"It’s crazy. Alec said he demanded to speak to Q and 007, but I don't think he meant Alec and R."

"He meant you and me."

"It’s crazy," Shaun repeated, running a hand through his shaggy dark hair. He bumped his glasses and adjusted them, seemingly oblivious to how every gesture was watched by Bond with affinity. God help him if Shaun ever wanted to cut his hair or get contacts.

"And we have no idea what he wanted?"

"No specific threats, no demands. I think he just wanted us to cower in this presence, and something interrupted him. I don't know what."

Bond pressed his elbows on his legs and sighed. A year ago, he and Shaun would have been neck-deep in all this anyway. Sworn by duty and honor to stay, and research, and fight the fight against this man before he could inflict any damage to MI6 or England. And part of James still had this instinct. He had often wondered if his agent training included hypnotized brainwashing, to build in an extra layer of patriotism and self-sacrifice. It didn’t exactly seem common to the general populace. Or maybe that was just the way he was programmed in his DNA. Shaun too.

But he wasn't 007, and Shaun wasn't Q. They were 9-5ers. They had a flat with more cat food than human food. Shaun had his two odd brothers, and their mother (who had James on speed dial). James had his perfect innocent daughter Rory, who was now on the same continent. She came over for dinners, introduced him to bad movies that she and Shaun bad-mouthed, and then they call crank-called Michele together in Stars Hollow. He had Rory's awful boyfriend Jess to keep tabs on. He had friends—John Watson and Lestrade and their weekly night out. He had neighbors who literally felt comfortable enough to knock and ask to borrow a cup of sugar (although they appeared slightly more comfortable when Shaun was in the room). He had finally mastered self-checkout at the fucking Tesco.

And, for the first time in his life, he was thinking that maybe it better for the new 007 and Q to handle this mess. He had people now: people to protect, people to be there for.

"Whatever you want to do, that's what we'll do," he said. He was always better at following orders than people gave him credit for.

"Do me a favor: Google Tom Hiddleston." They did. "That's the man?" James asked.

Shaun nodded, knees bumping into James' again. "Either it’s just a strange coincidence, or that man has gone insane and will try to kill us all next time he sees us."

James knew the art of deflecting emotion with humor. They were both black belts at it, if Shaun was a bit more sarcastic and James was more deadpan. But this wasn't funny. It was too unnerving.

"How, uh?" James tried to keep calm, for Shaun's sake, "how was that stupid play last night? The one Roy and Moss went to?"

Shaun's head fell back and he was laughing so hard he was practically in tears. "Oh my god, I have to tell you everything." But before he could, James squared his shoulders. The lines on his face hardened; he was ready for action, and Shaun picked up on the change.

Alec, the new 007, was walking straight towards them. Without further ado, he came into the office and shut the door behind him. He looked quite cramped—it was not a large office—but said nothing of it.

"Bond."

"James Bond," he said with a smirk.

Alec's smile was genuine but thin. "I know we haven't talked about the whole, ‘me stealing your job when you were demoted situation,’ and if you need to throw a punch or two to release some tension, all I ask is, 'not the face.'"

"Later." Truthfully he felt plenty of bitterness towards M, but none towards Alec. England needed as many good double ohs as they could get, and Alec would take to the job like a fish to water.

"It’s a date."

Men who were not as good of friends would have needed more words, but that was enough for them.

"For what it’s worth," Alec said, "I've been unofficially commissioned by M's office to come over here. You're both needed in the home office. A task force is being assembled to understand what happened today."

Bond exchanged glances with Shaun. He didn't want to go. He wanted to shove off work and take Shaun home and take Rory and go to Scotland for a few days, where no evil Norse God would find them. Bond was absolutely positive he had conveyed his message through his eyes, and that Shaun understood. Then Shaun stood, legs slightly wobbly, and spoke on both their behalves. "We'll be there in fifteen."

God James loved him. He was so screwed.

* * *

Back at home office, Bond refused to start any task force when he realized Alec had a broken shoulder. Supposedly from throwing his entire body weight towards a wall stacked with metal shelves and glass beakers, when a God had disappeared from in front of him.

"Liar," Bond whispered.

"Puppy," Alec snapped.

"Children," said Q.

"Little shit," they said simultaneously.

The nurse was a refreshing change of pace. Calm and efficient, not bothering to ask questions that would call for a classified answer, nor dispensing over-cautionary advice that a double oh was sure to ignore. He was middle-aged with thinning hair, with a smooth voice that underscored his experience and competence. He explained the clavicle was fractured but fortunately not dislocated. He gave Alec a sling, some ibuprofen, and setup physical therapy appointments for the coming weeks. Alec was in and out of medical in less than 30 minutes.

"Officially I have to summon the doctor," the Nurse, Tanner, explained, "but he'll keep you for an extra three hours and report you straight to M if he catches you outside that sling. I'd make a run for it while you can."

Indeed. Usually Bond couldn't wait to get out from under the thumb of medical, but this guy knew how to deal with double ohs. "Next time I get shot, I'll look you up, Mr. Tanner." Bond said. Bill Tanner, he reminded himself as a mental note.

"It’s an honor to help, gentlemen."

As they all stood up to leave, a crackling sound registered on Bond's ears. He didn't like strange noises, on the whole, and on instinct stood in front of Shaun.

"What the hell is that?" Tanner asked.

From the corner of the large exam room, sparks started to fly in the air. Blue sparks, bright like firecrackers.

"Fight or flight?" Shaun said quietly.

There was no time to do either. The sparks increased in size and frequency until the whole corner of the room was a glowing portal of light, and something fell through it.

A person.

Bond and Alec had their guns drawn; Tanner reached for the emergency panic button on the desk.

The person who had fallen through the portal of light raised his head, and Bond froze. The man was tall but thin. He wore a horrific wool sweater. A messy mop of black hair, and thick-rimmed glasses, framed a pale beautiful face.

"Oh my god."

Tanner hadn't quite pressed the panic button, now more confused than ever. He looked towards Shaun and the stranger, who had fallen on the floor and not yet gotten up. "You have a twin?" he asked.

"No."

The other copy of Shaun, the one on the floor, opened his eyes. He was exhausted, not just tired but lacking in even enough energy to come to his feet. He cleared his throat and groaned in pain, observing Bond, Alec, Tanner and finally Shaun. Two carbon copies of the same man, staring at each other.

"I'm calling upstairs," Tanner finally said.

Bond held out his arm. "Just wait a minute, please." His instincts to protect Shaun, any version of Shaun, were too strong. He couldn't hand him over to M and a goon squad.

"This could be another break-in, or an attack of some kind. 007," Tanner appealed to Alec, "we have a duty to inform M."

"She can wait 5 minutes," Alec said. He approached the figure on the floor, who had managed to lift his head and rest it against a chair leg. Tanner sighed and followed suit, grabbing a stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff. The figure on the floor didn't have the energy to protest. "Who are you?" Alec asked.

The figure breathed in and out, harshly. "I am Q," he wheezed. "And you have no idea how messed up this is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next chapter: Track B!  
> James and Q are back as 007 and Quartermaster!  
> Crushes! Pining! Alcohol!  
> Avengers!  
> Q and Eggsy BFFs!  
> Q's trip to the Track A-verse!


	2. Track B

Track B

Bond walked into her office, impeccably dressed, not a strand of hair out of place. His eyes were playful, his lips turned up in a small, knowing smile. "Good morning, Moneypenny."

Her eyes nearly popped out of her head.

Bond. Back. Two months! It had been two months—two months since the bridge, and Blofeld, and Madeline Swann—and not a word. Even she had basically written him off for good. Moneypenny would have been less surprised to see the Prime Minister. She sucked in her breath, trying to be cool, and raised an eyebrow. "Good morning, private-citizen Bond."

"Ouch. See if I bring you flowers again."

His eyes cut to the door. "Can I head in?"

She shrugged, still trying to collect herself. "I don't know. He keeps a gun in the desk. Are you armed?"

"With my best charm." He rapped on the paneled door, opened it, and strode into Mallory's office. He left the door ajar, and that was worth something in Moneypenny's estimation. She felt a twinge of guilt for not warning her boss. But if Bond couldn't handle Mallory's raw reaction, he wouldn't last long back here anyway. She heard Mallory hang up his desk phone, and there was silence.

"Good morning, Sir. Any evil meglomaniacs who need to be taken down a peg?"

Bond was always cheeky, but it felt just a tad off. Like perhaps he was trying a centimeter too hard to be casual, to be cool. Which meant he wasn't either of those things. At all.

Luckily, Mallory seemed more annoyed than pissed off. The double oh branch may have had a decent amount of peace and quiet in the last two months, but she knew he knew that a talented spy who was genuinely willing to die for his country and didn't come around every day. MI6 needed as many of them as they could get their hands on. Bond would be required to re-certify on all physical and mental tests, and then would be back in the field on probation.

When Bond returned to Moneypenny, he smirked at her one last time, but didn't stop to chat. Didn't give her a chance to ask the question that everyone in the building would be asking, "What happened to Miss Swann?"

Mentally Moneypenny kicked into gear. Of course double ohs never thought of the administrivia that had to be done when simply coming and going as they pleased—payroll and HR would need to be informed. Legal and diplomatic services would need apology wine and gift baskets in advance. The tests would have to be arranged, preferably with people Bond had worked with before, so as not to scare anyone new off the job. And of course she made a list of who she would tell first, to ensure everyone in the building knew about this in sixty minutes or less, and in the right chain of command. It would go over better if she made sure the right people knew first. And something had to keep the office awake on a Monday at seven AM.

She only hesitated when she reached for the phone. Oh bloody hell, who would tell Q?

* * *

Q was running late this morning, having to take Mothra to the vet for a tooth extraction. He figured he'd put in a few hours at the office, then pick up his darling baby, and work from home for rest of the evening. It’s not like anyone could complain about him not putting in enough hours—a regular work day might even prevent another minion from reporting him to Moneypenny, who forced him home after he hit eighty hours in a week. He didn't see what the problem was. There was work to be done, alright? And for once he had time to work on some larger infrastructure projects, instead of cleaning up after the wreckage and devastation left behind by 007. A 007 who had disappeared two months ago and apparently never looked back.

Yes, it still stung. But it was just some stupid crush, on some ridiculous assassin with ridiculous blue eyes and a ridiculous car. And he wasn't some ridiculous…Bond girl.

It’s not like he was about to throw himself off a bridge, or track down a certain Madeline Swann with her perfect hair and perfect cheekbones and ruin her credit rating forever. He wasn't a monster.

It had only been a small crush. Who didn’t have a twinge of desire for one of the double ohs, if not more than one?

God, was it only nine AM?

When he keyed his entry and stepped inside Q-Branch, he felt it. All hell had not quite broken loose—people were not hunched over their monitors in fright. But the whole division was buzzing. Some extra-juicy piece of gossip was at play.

He resumed walking towards his workstation at the back wall. With every footfall, he felt eyes on him and conversation flitter in starts and stops.

He fired up his station, reviewing any low-level alerts that had come his way since yesterday (anything higher would have been straight to his phone). Nothing there. And nothing much interesting in his email. The rest of the morning passed quietly, with Q totally devoted to his projects. A few double ohs were out in the field, but not in any life-or-death situations. Q-Branch kept an eye on them. And as to whatever Q-Branch was talking about, no one apparently had any intention of telling him. He was actually quite grateful—if he needed to know, as Quartermaster, then someone _would_ tell him. If he didn't, well, he didn't need to hear the blow by blow of the prank wars between 002 and 005, or about some romantic tiff down in Accounting or IT. Isn't that what he had crap telly for?

But a few hours later, he had accumulated more than one pointed stare, and he got the distinct feeling people were telepathically asking him, "Has someone told you already?" He sighed. Time for a walk.

He found Moneypenny in her office. She took one look at him and got up to meet him. "Back in ten," she yelled behind her, escorting them both out. She took him to an empty office one floor down.

"Where are we?"

She looked at him funny. "I'll explain later. So. No one's told you." It didn't really sound like a question. She could apparently read from his face well enough that he hadn't reacted to whatever news lie in store.

"How bad could it be?"

She inhaled, crossed her arms, and told him everything that she knew.

Oh. Bond was back. Back-back. He had sauntered into M's office early this morning, like the sleek cat that had been gallivanting about the neighborhood for a few nights, only to come back home looking for food and a scratch on the chin. So to speak.

Everyone knew Moneypenny was a gossip, but Q also knew she cared. She took no joy in telling him this. She looked quite concerned, really.

"So he's…in the building?" he confirmed. "Has been all morning?"

She nodded.

Huh. Well, it made sense he hadn't dropped by Q-Branch yet. He wouldn't need field equipment until he had passed the tests. And while they had a good professional relationship in the initial post-Silva, post-Skyfall months, it's not like Bond was inviting him out for drinks and showing up at his flat with cat food. Q might not see Bond for months, really.

"He's an asshole; you've always known that."

"Right," Q said.

"I mean he just left with hardly a proper goodbye to anyone. He hasn't said a word to anyone, and now he's just back, like nothing happened at all."

"Right."

"Maybe you should let me and R run some interference for you."

"What?" Q straightened his glasses. "I assure you: that's not necessary. I'm a professional," he said a bit too forcefully. "I'm not going to start avoiding a double oh, any of them, when it’s my responsibility to keep them alive in the field."

"Right," she said. "So."

"So." Bond was back. And in no hurry to say hello. He could deal with his. He wasn't some love-struck thirteen year old girl.

"Drinks tonight?" Moneypenny asked, nudging him with her elbow.

"Yes, definitely." He added, "Thanks Moneypenny." He didn't have many real world friends. It wasn't just the classified job. Let's face it, he thought, if was good with _people_ he wouldn't be Quartermaster. But he was very grateful to have Moneypenny in his corner at that moment. "Moneypenny, really, where are we right now?"

"The one place Bond will never look for us—his own office."

"He has an office?" Q looked the room, really seeing it for the first time. "It's lovely."

"I don't think he realizes he has one. Don't think anyone does. I've made it my own personal Narnia."

What a strange day, Q thought. And what a good night to get his drink on.

* * *

A little after 11, Q fumbled with the biometric scanner outside his flat. Had picked up Mothra from the vet, taken the afternoon off work, and then had those drinks with Moneypenny. Just being outside MI6 made him a little more comfortable talking about Bond, and the alcohol certainly didn't hurt. Moneypenny didn't say it to his face, not directly, but he had gotten her message.

_"I know you like him." She reached her hand across the table and looked him right in the yes. "I like him too," she added, somewhat hastily. "Whenever he came to me for help, it made me feel…special, to know that he trusted me. I think it’s the highest compliment he can give someone: trusting them."_

He opened the door and didn't bother with the ceiling lights. He walked through the living room and yanked the chain on the old lamp. He collapsed onto the couch.

_"But you're a romantic — and don't try to convince me otherwise for one second. He's not."_

_"He can be romantic," Q said, in a little mumble._

_"He can't give you what you want."_

_"He left MI6 for her," Q said. "He loved her."_

_"And look how long that lasted." She snapped her mouth shut. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. He's just_ such _an idiot, Q."_

Mothra jumped into his lap. Q had brought him home from the vet before leaving for drinks. The furry orange cat was nineteen pounds, mostly fur, and with the kitty painkillers basically deadweight. Mothra had become a warm, purring, blanket. Maybe he could just sleep here. "I can't handle this, Mothra. I just…like him." He closed his eyes and was slowly drifting off when rap music jolted him awake. He swayed to his feet. Maybe he had slightly more to drink than appropriate, in a job where global crisis could call at a moment's notice. The angry, abrasive music spoke volumes to his new neighbor's mood — he obviously wanted to be left the fuck alone — and Q felt like being contrary.

He pulled over his home laptop — his personal, and his favorite — from the glass coffee table and fired it up. Eggsy wasn't online. No big surprise there.

"Eggsy!" He shouted through the wall. "Wanna play?"

No response.

"Eggsy! My not-boyfriend who rode off into the sunrise with his maudlin blonde…person…is back, solo, and I'm not okay!!!" Yes, he had definitely had too much to drink.

Two minutes later there was a knock on his door. Q let him in. Eggsy had been drinking too, and collapsed on the couch. "I heard ya. I have ya beat," he said.

Q didn't know what to make of Gary 'Eggsy' Unwin. He was a few years younger than Q, living alone. His working class roots were obvious—he had run into Eggsy's visiting mum and baby sister in the hall once. But he spoke and carried himself quite differently than his family—crisp and confident and wearing bespoke suites with a charming smile. He appeared to have no other visitors besides his immediate family. Q had run a basic background check, of course—he did that on everyone in the building, and the buildings adjacent. So how did a street kid that should have been in jail by now end up looking more like a…like a double oh, Q had asked himself.

Whenever Q tried to pry a little deeper into what had brought about these changes in Eggsy, Eggsy ducked his head with an 'aw shucks' grin and said something about making a better life for himself. And then he would ask more pointed questions about Q's cover job. At some point, they had dropped the matter. Which is to say, they silently agreed to mutually respect each other's secrets, and a beautiful friendship began in earnest.

Over the past three months Q and Eggsy had become PlayStation buddies. And XBox Live chums. And teammates on an MMORPG so that was covert it was said to be bad luck to say the name aloud.

And then, one night, over many drinks, Q had told Eggsy about Bond, and Eggsy had told Q about Harry. Eggsy really did have it worse—poor Harry Hart, whom Q had surmised was Eggsy's filty rich older lover, had been murdered. Over the months Eggsy had slowly seemed to heal, which was why it was so disturbing to see him tonight. Raw. Devasted.

"You first," Eggsy said.

Reluctantly, Q let the whole story out, glossing over classified details. When he got to the part about Bond not even visiting Q-Branch ("the IT department") to say hello, his voice hit a whine. "I'm fine, though." Q tried to recover.

"Obviously."

"It’s more than being just a flirt. All the…guys in Sales are flirts. For a while I was so convinced that he KNEW I had a crush on him. How could he NOT know, he's a…top Salesman, right? He reads people a lot more deceptive than me. And I was pissed at him for using me that way, just to get his stupid job done. Eve says that's just the way he is. And I should still be pissed at him, for manipulating me like some floozy out on a…sales call, even if he doesn't do it intentionally. But I'm just…"

"Shaun?"

"I'm just so…happy that he's back," Q said. "I am thirty-five year old man, a grown adult man, and my crush is back in town and I feel like I'm all of fourteen." His shoulders slumped. "I'm pretty he thinks that's about my actual age too."

"You're thirty five? You? What, do you bathe in the blood of the innocent?"

"Eggsy!"

"And you're still dressing like that?"

"Eggsy."

"WHAT was the point of buying you all those new clothes if you never wear them?"

"Are we having the same conversation?"

"Yeah," Eggsy said. "We are. And you know what?" he grinned, way too wide, cheeks way too pink with booze. "I think it’s about time we settled up on last week’s bet." Oh no, there had been evil promises of a makeover involved.

"Fuck my life." He looked at the clock. After midnight, and not even a little tired. Even he needed a little sleep to be functional day to day. "He's a total bad-ass," Q said.

"A yacht salesman?" Eggsy raised his brow.

"Hmmm." Q nodded. There were only so many metaphors he could make up along the way. "And I don't want to pretend to be some soft, feminine substitute for his normal Sales girls, and I can't pretend to be some bad-ass, devil-may-care, salesman like him. I'm just me, Eggsy. I'm just a really really smart, dorky, sarcastic person with two cats and four computer monitors, and this weird kid of a neighbor who sometimes comes over to get beaten at Halo, and sometimes comes over to watch My Fair Lady with me and eat Apricot tarts."

"I beat you at Halo just last week." Once. Eggsy pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Okay, my turn." He inhaled. "Harry's alive. Has been for months, and didn't even bother to tell me."

Q palmed his face. "The fuck?"

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Bond stayed busy with his tests. It was easier than it had been, last time. He wasn't exactly in his prime, but what age tried to take away he relentlessly worked to maintain. He never considered himself a vain man—despite an obvious appreciation for fine thing—but that morning, stepping outside of the shower, he was pleased with what he saw. A tanned face. Clear eyes. A body that could still attract a beautiful woman, or three.

Should it be different, now? Should he have been more devastated when Madeline had left him? Should he have bags under his eyes and ennui? The only thing that felt wrong was how little felt wrong about coming back. Coming back alone.

He didn't interfere with the MI6 gossip. He used the air of mystery to his advantage, and it would die down soon enough. Most of them would never dare say a word to his face.

A few people would work up the courage to actually ask. Moneypenny certainly, and eventually some official shrink who would make a note in his file for M and Tanner. How disappointed would they be, that it was such an old story. Boy and girl fall in love in high octane, life or death peril. They ride off into the sunset. They say I love you. The curtains rise on a new life together. But it turns out: only one of them really means it. The other just got 'caught up in the moment.' Because movies don't really end that way.

This—this empty flat, scotch and fine suits—this felt familiar. Work felt familiar. Bantering with Moneypenny felt familiar. Actually, there was one person he had not called on yesterday. It wasn't a deliberate oversight—the tests had been quite exhausting and Bond preferred saunting into Q-Branch to limping in, out of breathe. But he was in fine form this morning.

Wearing his formal suit and jacket, he took the elevator down to the basement.

He strode in, hands in his pockets, with a small sway to his walk. His mood and then step had picked up at the thought of seeing Q. Funny, he had liked old Major Boothroyd well enough, but never really looked forward to seeing him. Not like he did with this new Q. Bond didn't overthink it. He took the curious looks from Q-Branch minions in stride, sure it was nothing more than the same general gossip the upper floors were engaging in.

Q sat in the back, right where Bond had left him on that crisp fall morning. Except…Bond's lips started to open slightly, until he closed them. His eyes roamed over Q. Today he had traded in his collection of sweaters stitched by the blind for a fitted button-up shirt. It looked good on him—made him seem just a little older, a little more worldly. "You look good," was the first thing Bond said to Q.

He registered the sound of a coffee mug shattering, two cubes over. He caught the reflection from a mirror and quickly decided it was not a threat.

Q looked up from his monitor. "007." He nodded in acknowledgement.

"Where'd you get it?" Bond asked, motioning to the maroon shirt, and the grey slacks. Expensive, Bond thought. Tailored.

"You didn't come down all this way to compare tailors." His voice was even and he made good eye contact, but something irked at Bond. He didn't know Q particularly well, personally at least, but he didn't like Q's tone.

It was so…official. Maybe Bond should have taken the hint. Maybe a mission had gone badly this morning or one of the minions had flubbed up. But really, "You have a tailor?"

"My, erm, neighbor," Q said, hurriedly, "is a tailor. He's been trying to get me to update my look, so to speak." He briefly touched the back of his neck. "And I'm his practice mannequin. And I lost a PlayStation-related dare."

"I see," though Bond did _not_ see, at all. He kept his face neutral, his instincts from the field kicking in. Something about this didn't sit right with him. He had no idea why. A few seconds passed. Still bothered him, still didn't know why. Well. What had he come down here for again? He couldn't remember, but had an on-the-spot idea. "Thank you, for the car."

"Which one?" Q asked, never looking up from his monitor. No doubt, referring to the one stole and the one Q had so painstakingly restored.

And liftoff! Bond thought. The first glimmer of cheekiness. Of Q. Hearing it, Bond's pulse picked up and he felt a minor relief. Of course everything was fine. He was Q, he had his gadgets and his minions, why wouldn't he be fine? Belatedly Bond realized he had never answered. It was a rhetorical question anyway, he decided. "Have you got any new firearm prototypes, something that perhaps needs some real world testing?" Since they had worked together in the Skyfall affair, Q had been more amenable to the complex, often dangerous trinkets Boothroyd had so adored.

Q met his eyes. He seemed to look right through Bond, as though Bond didn't even exist. "Your equipment will be delivered when your re-cert is complete, of course. Until then, 007." He went back to his monitor.

Bond had a few choice responses on the tip of his tongue. What the hell was going on? What robotic bureaucrat had replaced his…confidant? What that right? Co-conspirator at the least. And who the hell was this tailor?! His mind conjured an image of someone else, some other sleekly dressed double oh figure, measuring Q. Touching him. Brushing their fingers against him. The ferocity of his unhappiness this fleeting image caused him shut him up. Don't overthink it, he thought to himself for the second time that morning.

He turned on his feet, determinedly clearing his head of Q.

He was too disciplined to storm away childishly, exposing his displeasure, but the sway to his step had been replaced by brusque footfalls, and his lips pursed.

Well, this was just…horrible.

* * *

"Oh no."

"You haven't even heard me out," Bond said. Good god, it sounded closer to whining than flirting.

Moneypenny had, of course, heard all about the train wreck in Q-Branch. IT must be regretting ever installing that intra-office chat system. Efficiency had been the sales pitch. Efficiency, right. Simultaneous electronic bombardment by eight Q minions—all wildly concerned about their boss, and/or a hairsbreadth away from destroying Bond—was more like it. And here was the blue-eyed devil himself, standing in front her desk with a puppy-like expression on his face.

She had seen and heard Bond act on his missions—she was positive he had never attempted puppy dog, and wouldn't even know how.

"I'm not your fairy godmother," she said. "I can't solve all your problems."

Bond's nostrils flared. "It’s just—it’s only been two months."

Moneypenny sighed. Only two months. He thought he should have been able to waltz right in, and pick up where he had left off.

She glanced at her boss's closed door. His phone call with the PM would last least another ten minutes. She motioned for Bond to close the outer door, so they'd have a bit of privacy.

"Tell me what happened." She settled in like she was a Judge and the desk was her mighty Bench.

"I went down to Q-Branch, to say hello, bother Q a bit. And he sent me away off like some…" the lines in his forehead crinkled, "bother." At Moneypenny's silence, he continued. "He hardly said a word, and when he did he acted—"

"Professional?"

"Distant," Bond said, "like we weren't…" He trailed off. And scowled. "His new clothes are ridiculous."

"Oh?" she said, eyebrow raised. This whole conversation was unreal. Maybe two months away had made Bond go the tiniest bit soft. Not weak, but just a little softening of that icy exterior. "I think he looks smashing," she said. "That tailor of his really has keen eye."

"I could do better," Bond snapped, the words not appearing to reach his own ears until a second later.

The awkward silence could have gone on for a lifetime.

If Moneypenny was a more sympathetic person, she could have pretended she didn't hear it, or see Bond's eyes immediately regret the slip. And yet…."You could do better?" She drawled each word to its maximum effect. "At. Dressing. Q?"

"I should go."

Moneypenny huffed and got to her feet. In her heels, she was James' height. She towed to no one. "What are you so upset at? That Q's treating you the way he treats the rest of the double ohs? That's what happens when you use people, and use them again, and use them some more. The well of favors dries up, and you're not the special one anymore."

Bond face hardened. "I was fighting of the biggest terrorist organizations in the world—uphill, through fire and ice. I needed your help. I needed his help. I was only trying to save the damn country."

Moneypenny threw her hands up. "Oh my god, you such an idiot!" Her interactions with Bond had always erred on the side of subtle, cute, coy. But she could not—would not—deal with this every day for the next year. "Okay, cards on the table. He liked you. He had a crush on you, and he's crazy about you and you knew it," she pointed her finger at him, and cut off his response. "On some level, you knew it, and you used it to get him to risk his entire career for nothing more than a charming smile in return, just the way you do with the rest of those stupid girls. And now you're all shocked and shaken that he's moved on—"

He hadn't moved on, of course, but Bond didn't need to know that.

"—and not in a particular rush to go back to being your pet genius." She cut off his response, again, and he looked ready for a hell of a fight when she finally stopped. "He isn't just your Quartermaster. He's Q; he's a person and he can be pissed at you and hurt by you and, you know what?"

Her arms fell to her sides and when she spoke, the anger was replaced by a sad finality. "He deserves better than you." She marched to the door and opened it.

Bond was still. His face was stone, expressionless. "I had no idea I was such a burden. Good day Miss Moneypenny." He left.

Moneypenny fell back in her chair. "Oh shit." She had told Q that the only way he was going to survive this was by keeping Bond at a professional distance. But even thirty minutes ago she harbored a little fantasy in her mind where she played matchmaker between a more slightly less lovesick Q and a slightly more sympathetic Bond. When he had shown obvious jealousy to Q's tailor—what was his name again, Unwin?—she could see the story ending so plainly in a big kiss at the Q-Branch Christmas party. But by the end of her diatribe, she knew she was right. Q did deserve better.

And she, honestly, had bigger things to worry about than playing matchmaker for her colleagues. Like Q, she had a mortgage to pay, and divorced parents pestering her about where to spend holidays, and a gorgeous St. Bart’s doctor in her bed every night who wouldn't stop reminding her that she was brilliant, and capable of being so much more than an ordinary bank secretary. It was a stunningly sweet show of confidence.

M's door opened. "Anything the matter?" She couldn't determine how much he may have overheard.

"Bond's a knobhead."

"That's not anything new. You telling him off is."

Ah, well, she had certainly raised her voice. "Yes, sir."

"Are we worried about he's going to take it?"

"Oh, yes, sir."

* * *

"Bond?" Tanner startled. "What are you doing here?"

"You hadn't heard I was back?" That didn't seem likely. He wouldn't be surprised if Tanner had been the first to know, even before Moneypenny.

Moneypenny, he thought bitterly, and her completely ridiculous, unasked for opinions—. He shut himself up before he could even think the rest.

"You've never visited my office," Tanner said. "Probably because my secretary Edith is a great-grandmother."

Bond didn't deny it. "I'm looking for Alec, and no one will give me a straight answer." It’s not like he could return to Q-Branch to ask, not after what she had said. Suddenly his list of allies in the building felt short, indeed.

_He's crazy about you._

His urge to shoot someone was slowly fading, giving way to what felt a little like defensiveness. Maybe Bond hadn't totally oblivious to Q's affection for him in the past. But, contrary to popular opinion, he wasn't some lust-addled moron. A one-night stand with Q, maybe even a whole weekend behind closed doors, sounded well and good. Actually, it sounded very well and good. But he wouldn't be doing either of them any favors. What happened next? Nothing either of them wanted.

He used to dread visits to Q-Branch, filled with all the stuck-up nerds who seemed to think the double ohs were just lugheads acting out juvenile fantasies. After Skyfall, not only did his dread disappear away, but he had been caught down there perhaps strictly more than professionally necessary. He enjoyed Q's admiration and affection for him. He trusted Q. He liked Q.

Bond had been one trying to be the mature adult. To look and not touch. To put the job first, always. When the hell did he become the bad guy?

"007, did you hear me?"

"Sorry, do go on."

"00…James…I'm truly sorry."

"What?" Oh no.

Alec.

Oh no.

Oh no.

It was six weeks ago. It had been quick, painless. Just one wrong turn, just a few seconds too late. Bond didn't hear all the rest.

Oh no.

* * *

Moneypenny hadn't told him the whole story—Q was sure of it. But she had seemed confident that Bond would keep his distance, and not be too weird about it.

Great. Just great.

Moneypenny had even suggested to Q to remove Bond's access code's permissions to Q-Branch. Until he was officially re-certified, technically it was classified. Previous attempts to keep Bond out of Q-Branch at been half-hearted at best—enough to justify to Tanner, but leaving enough loopholes for a clever double oh to jump through. This time, he meant it. It practically broke his heart, but he meant it.

He actually didn't have a ton of time to think about it. He was busy these days. Getting dressed took twice the time it used to, finding an arrangement of clothes and accessories from what Eggsy had picked for him. Eggsy was always so pleased to see that his suggestions actually looked good on Q. "What do you know?" he had mumbled to himself while they shopped one day. "I'm not half bad at this." A funny thing for an already very expensive—if young—tailor to say. So yes, getting dressed had become a whole morning activity that took more time than breakfast and cat petting combined.

The two Avengers that had been in MI6 every day this week also contributed to his general business.

And the genuine need to keep Bond and anyone else not need-to-know out of the department.

It had started three days ago, when none-other than Tony Stark had reached out to MI6, for intelligence-sharing purposes, he had said. World-saving, supernatural-style intelligence-sharing. And Stark had been looking for Shaun, of all people. Not just Q, but Shaun. When he had found out, it had been enough for Q to stand a little straighter, preening to no one in particular. "I'm a beta tester for the new Stark Phone," he had told Moneypenny, for no reason in particular. Q-Branch had become the center of their little task force. Moneypenny had relocated down there yesterday, since M had barely left. Ditto Tanner. The more junior half of Q-Branch had been relocated to vacant quarters upstairs, to keep the task force circle as tight as possible.

Captain America and Thor had traveled all the way to London, while Stark joined on a web conference multiple times a day. He, Stark, and most of Shield were dedicated to tracking the electromagnetic storms that had been tearing thin holes through the fabric of the Earth.

Q believed the Golden God Thor when he said the disturbances were caused by his brother Loki—he had seen the devastation in New York on TV, and had later hacked Shield's reports on the events. But he wasn't giving up on science just yet. There was a physical, rational cause for what Loki was doing. Magic was just science he didn't understand yet.

Some of the best whitehats were in this together trying to figure out the how, while the Captain and Thor were more concerned about _why_ Loki was doing his. What was endgame?

Q stood in front of the huge TV, the screen shared by a dozen people in difference locations. "I'm telling you, it’s possible. We can do it."

Stark nodded. "I can have all the tech fabricated and airlifed by tomorrow morning. Free shipping." He smirked.

"And these signals would bring him here?" Thor asked. He made no secret that most Midgardian technology escaped him.

"Yes," Q said. "So far these tears have been random, taking place in dozens of cities all over the world, in no predictable order or pattern." And leaving trails of confused, frightened people who thought they were nuts, he added to himself. The Weekly World News was having a field day.

"But I think with the right attractors, we can create a specific physical location which will have ideal conditions for the event to occur. We can't force him to come here next, but the probability goes through the roof. It'll happen. Whether its minutes, or hours, or even days, we can ensnare him."

Thor nodded, appreciative of Q's understandable explanation. "I don't doubt your cleverness in these matters, Master of Quarters."

Q wouldn't have dared correct him. Thor swirled that hammer absentmindedly, like he hadn't used it in a while and had an itch to scratch. He stuck Q as a very physical creature, like Bond. Oh God, Bond and Thor, out on the town for a pint—that was a picture to imagine.

A cough from Tanner brought his attention back to the matter at hand.

He had missed a few words from Thor, "…my brother would not due this to cause harm simply for harm’s sake."

Steve was thoughtful. "I'm inclined to agree. If he wanted to hurt us again, he could be a heck of a lot more direct about it."

And yes, the Captain had totally invited them all to call him Steve. Q tried to avoid speaking directly to him, to avoid too much fan-girling. To be safe, he addressed the group. "Is it possible he doesn't even know he's going this? That he's not conscious of it, or can't stop it?" He imagined a Norse God trapped on a rocket-fuelled train traveling in and out of what Thor called "the realms."

"Well, it screams Trickster God to me," Tony said. He was still cheeky but there was a dark current to his words. "What if he's just getting off on messing with people, freaking them out, making them think they're crazy? Wacky fun, just ask Hawkeye."

"If that is his true motivation," Thor said, "then he knows not the depth of destruction that he is causing the realm." Thor lowered his gaze, not meeting any of them. "He could be reasoned with; I know this to be true."

"Either way, we won't find out until we can get him to stop long enough to talk to us," Steve said.

M raised his brow. "In the middle of London? It's not possible to find a nice isolated spot…somewhere else?"

"No," Q said.

"Anywhere else." M was serious.

Q fidgeted with the stress ball in his hands. "I know it’s risky." That wasn't even the proper word. Trying to eat a tuna melt at home, with Mothra on the loose, was risky. This was inviting someone who had destroyed several city blocks and tried to enslave the world, to dinner. It was ensnaring a God whom no mortal could hope to defeat, while trying very hard to _not_ kill him, due to the other Norse God in the room. If Q cocked it all up, this would be by far the biggest international incident he had ever caused. And that was saying something.

But they had been over this. Loki's flight plan, so to speak, only stopped in cities with millions of people. Whatever he was doing, he wasn't interested in farmland and small towns. Pulling him into rural Scotland when he was aiming for London—impossible. But pulling him into a controlled space when he was already in London—doable.

But was M right? Did he have any right to risk all of London on a hunch?

"How focused could we make the attractive region?" Moneypenny's voice was a cool breeze, dousing his worries. "Two blocks? A block? A floor in this building?"

"Yes," Q said. "I think I could get him in the building. I could shoot for the lower sublevels to avoid civilian exposure, but no promises."

"Okay," M said. He looked like he had aged terribly in the past two days. Being faced watching the entire world fall apart a molecular level, would do that to a man. "We'll do it your way, Q. Let's bring him to us."

There was a murmur of agreement, and Q and Tony huddled on the technical details for the next several hours.

* * *

Q didn't know quite when he fell asleep. It didn't really matter. When he woke up, he was drooling from the corner of his mouth, and his hair was a mess. His mouth was cracked and dry. He pondered over his collection of tea, coffee and herbal drinks—basically how he had been subsisting for the past few days. "Ugh," he said to himself. "Damn Eggsy and damn PlayStation." He wanted a Mountain Dew Code Red, like a craving.

"Mountain Dew…But where to get one?" he mumbled to himself.

"Master of Quarters." Thor walked over. "I'm glad you've availed yourself of some rest." His voice naturally boomed in the open space of Q-Branch.

"I have a feeling I'll need my wits about me this week," he said, stretching his arms. He sighed. "Getting him to listen to us won't be easy, will it?"

Thor smiled thinly. "No, it won't be." He rested against one of the desks across from Q. "I wanted to say that I am grateful for your help…and your gentler methods."

"We're not monsters. We don't _want_ this to end in his death…" he trailed off. "I've never wanted to kill anyone, actually. Ever."

"Many in your position would not see it so. The Agents of Shield, were they in London with us, would have revenge on their minds and in their hearts. Not that they would ever say so to my face."

Thor got an undeserved rep for being a dumb brute, Q decided. He wasn't technical, that was true, so when the press compared him with Stark and Banner, of course people just assumed he was a pretty face and big muscles. Q thought he was quite savvy with people, and that was far more difficult in Q's estimation than any mathematical equation.

Q nodded. "Maybe that's why he's avoiding America altogether."

S.H.I.E.L.D had been helping them collate data and the track the breaches, but the tears themselves never got near the USA. If they had, Q secretly would have been more than glad to let the supernatural spy crew do their stuff.

"I don't want to hurt anyone Thor, but I'm not naive, either," Q said. He didn't need to regurgitate what M had already drilled into their MI6 group, before the Avengers showed up. If Loki could not or would not see reason, he would have to be destroyed. Too many lives hung in the balance.

Thor's eyes were distant and sad. "I swore I would not let Loki destroy his realm. He is my brother and I love him. But if I have to, I will take his life."

The silence filled up the huge, vacant space. Q's heart broke a little for Thor, who was so obviously meant to be a jovial leader in peace, or a fearless leader in war. He looked lost.

"I'm an only child," Q said. "I lost my parents when I was young. My aunt and uncle looked after me, and they were decent and had enough money to feed and clothe me. But they never wanted kids. Not just that they hadn't _had_ any kids yet," Q rambled, "but they had literally set out together, agreeing that it was something neither of them wanted."

His shoulders slumped. "It wasn't a great childhood. I dreamed of having brothers, and sisters. Normal ones. Weird ones. Addams' family types. It wouldn't have mattered. I would have traded anything, done anything for a real family. Even a fucked up one. I have a feeling I'd be a pretty good little brother, if it had turned out that way." He weakly smiled. "Anyway, you seem like an excellent older brother to me, and I'm going to try to help you save him." He hesitated. "I promise."

Thor smiled at him, big and true, and it was like the sun shining through Q-Branch. "You are an honorable man, Master of Quarters. Thank you. Now," he straightened up, "I believe you were seeking the cool water of a mountain?"

"What? Oh, Mountain Dew. Yes that's really not what I meant."

* * *

To borrow a younger person's phrase, this sucked.

This whole situation was bloody awful.

Miserable.

For the past two weeks, Bond had continued his tests—the whole gamut, not just the rush job Monaghan had ordered in the Silva affair. The loss of Alec Trevelyan - his only friend among the double ohs—burned his heart in ways he could never tell any of those stupid shrinks. He had barely finished mourning Vesper when he mourned M. He had barely finished mourning M, and now this. And with each day that passed without resolving the Q situation, his moodiness brewed and stormed. His weapons training kept getting postponed due to behavioral problems. His instructors had finally ordered him to take a few "reading days" to keep him busy and away from them. He was given a 1200 page packet of updates on the current political situations in Europe, Russia, China and half the Middle East.

He wasn't sure where it came from, but he desperately wanted to see Q.

Q would tell him everything would be okay. Maybe if Bond apologized, even if he didn't know exactly know what to apologize for, Q would be his friend again.

But he wanted more than that. Alec had been his friend, and what he felt for Q was not like anything he had felt for Alec. He no longer stopped himself when the fantasies came. He imagined touching the small of Q's back,kissing his neck, taking him to bed. He reminded himself to breathe. Yes, that would very easy. Q wasn't just attractive; Bond was attracted to him, to his pale skin and his cleverness and his resiliency and even his power within MI6. The more he casually entertained the idea, the more he itched to go out and find him. To feel skin and sweat and lips and cock and make it all real.

No one appreciated the restraint he had tried to show after Skyfall, so why bother?

_He's crazy about you._

He harrumphed to an empty flat. He wasn't some young cad anymore, he reminded himself. He was a double oh. He couldn't give Q some romantic ending. Hadn't Madeline proved that? He would let himself keep the fantasies, but that was all.

It sounded like such a wonderful, iron-clad excuse. That they were too inherently different. Bond couldn't be tied down, couldn't give Q what he needed, what he deserved. The sex would be great, but they'd never have a future.

Late at night, Bond called himself on his bullshit. As a side note, he had liked talking to the little mouse in Morocco. Maybe he needed some kind of small, easy to care for pet to talk to at nights. He was doing enough of it lately. Anyway, was he really so altruistic, so mature when it came to sex? No one else seemed to think so.

Q had locked him out of Q-Branch. Him, James Bond! Didn't he know Bond at all? He had to know that trying to keep Bond out would make him determined to do nothing else but get inside.

And he did try, for about a day. It was like a mad game, and James was going to WIN. And then one night, at about 2:00 AM, aided by a liberal amount of vermouth, Moneypenny’s last words reared their ugly head. "He deserves better than you."

It wasn't just that she was right. It was the other reasons why Bond had never pursued Q. The reasons he couldn't say out loud, not even if there had been a mouse to talk to. Q was untouchable. Q was important to MI6. He belonged to the world, like Mozart or Penicillin or some piece of incomprehensive code that Q would look at and whisper, "Beautiful…" How long until Bond got Q hurt or kidnapped, or killed? It was inevitable, wasn't it? According to Moneypenny, Bond had already practically broken his heart.

What if Q locking him out wasn't playful at all?

What if Q just wanted Bond to stay the hell away?

Bond hadn't meant to take advantage of him. Of his crush, as Moneypenny had put it. He just trusted him so damned much, and he had drunk it in greedily. It was so rare for him to be able to depend on someone, absolutely. And just maybe he had gone too far, asked for too much. After all, he and Q weren't lovers, weren't boyfriends or even real friends. They were work mates, and Q had had a crush, and Bond had tried to avoid the path of physical temptation but wound up with a trust in Q that always almost more addictive and intimate than sex. Of course it would appear that he was just an insensitive asshole, taking advantage of someone.

Bond left MI6 silently that night. He stopped trying to break in.

He hadn't been back down to Q-Branch since.

And now, one of his certification interviewers today—a young woman who looked about eighteen years old and who wore sneakers to the office—had engaged him in a Mexican standoff. She asked him nothing at all. But then she finally said, "Woah, do you actually need to talk about something?" And he darted out of the room so fast he was dizzy in the elevator.

Yes, he did need to talk. Grieving alone. Staying away from Q-Branch. From Q. It was driving him insane. He was finding Q, tonight.

* * *

The trouble with looking for Q's flat was that the person he would ask for such information was the very person he was hunting.

Moneypenny had been a lifesaver. "If you hurt him, I'll kill you."

"I'm too old for this."

And that seemed to convince her well enough.

The building was in a posh neighborhood, set back from the street, almost hidden. He liked that. There was even a doorman, elderly but sharp. Bond opened his mouth to announce that he was unexpected but welcome visitor of…

Oh, shit.

What the hell was Q's name outside of work?

"Son?" The doorman said. "Who are you here to visit, then?"

Bond tapped his foot. "I don't know," he said, trying to maintain some dignity.

"Are you taking the piss?"

Bond contemplated his options. He could tell the doorman wouldn't let him without a name and an invitation, and he wouldn't be easy to charm. He couldn't break in without knowing which flat. He had no way to track Q's location. As embarrassing as it was, he would have to make another call to Moneypenny.

Bond sensed a man passing him on the right and glanced. A boy, then, not a man. A cocksure boy dressed in an atrocious tracksuit jumper, a baseball hat and worn sneakers.

Bond was sure the doorman of such a fine building would give the ruffian the heave-ho, but the doorman held out the door and the two exchanged easy smiles.

"Evenin' Olaf," the boy said.

"Welcome home, Mr. Un— _Sir_ " He cast a suspicious sort of look at Bond, like Bond was a door to door salesman and the chav was the Prince of England.

"Keep' out the riff raf?" he said and they shared a chuckle. "Who you looking for 'bruv?" he said to James.

"A work colleague." A little honesty wouldn't hurt. "I'm afraid I know his title better than his name. He's a little older than you, black hair, glasses."

The tracksuit boy sized him up. "And what's your name?"

"Bond. James Bond."

His eyebrows shot back. "Shut the fuck up!" He paused. "I mean, yeah, I might know who you're looking for. Maybe." His eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute, what'd you want with him?"

James Bond would not be interrogated by someone who dressed like a cartoon character. "Work."

"Right." The stare down came and went. "Fine. Olaf, I''m bringing him up to see Shaun. If I don't call down in the next 10 minutes, calls the coppers."

Olaf seemed delighted at the prospect.

Bond expected the interior of the building to be contemporary, all smooth glass and marble. Like a hotel. He was very wrong. A fireplace crackled in the corner. The couches looked comfortable. Plush rugs lined the floor. He had a fleeting desire to walk barefoot to feel the material and shook his head. He didn't even barefoot in his own flat! He had never cleaned up those glass shards from a bottle he broke last year.

They took the stairs to the third floor, passing some more tenants along the way. They all wore earbuds and had ill- fitting clothes. This, James thought, was a strange hideout for wealthy, young people who paid through the nose to feel like it was part of some…home. And this was where Shaun lived.

Shaun, Bond repeated to himself. Such a young name. He crinkled his nose. Maybe he should take it as a sign. He didn't like the name, and no longer liked this little building. Only a deeply ingrained aversion to cowardice kept his feet moving forward.

Eggsy introduced himself, saying little other than that he was neighbor. Another terrible name. Eggsy? He knocked on a door. Without waiting, Eggsy let himself in.

Bond followed him and immediately set eyes on Q, standing on the other end of the room. They locked eyes. He hadn't seen him in almost two weeks, since that awkward morning. He forgot to breathe.

Q gulped—Bond watched the motion with unexpected fascination—and set down the glass he had been holding midair. For however long , they stared. And then the trance broke.

Q glared at Eggsy, "What have you done?"

Eggsy held his hands up, "Nothing!"

"Nothing?"

"You shouldn't leave your door unlocked," Bond said. The words snuck out without his consent. But really, he shouldn’t. It was dangerous. A protectiveness towards Q was so sudden it was like an assault. Here Bond was, trying to keep away from Q for his own protection, and Q didn't even lock his door?

Bond would have to install a security system tomorrow, he thought.

Eggsy and Q looked at him like he was crazy, and he tried not to falter in front of them.

"He just showed up," Eggsy said. "He doesn't even know your name, you know?" He was obviously outraged by proxy.

James tensed. He hated that this Eggsy person was right. He hated it.

Q gripped Eggsy's shoulder and started half shoving him out the door. "He's from work. I'll talk to you tomorrow morning."

"I have to be to Saville Row by 6:00," Eggsy whined. "And I need to know what happens next! "

Bond didn't catch the rest of Q and Eggsy's back and forth. It was something snarky. He was feeling overwhelmed by the displeasure of seeing Q touching someone. Puzzle pieces in his mind clicked together. "You're the tailor?" he asked. His voice was low and body still.

"Uh oh," Q muttered.

"Yeah, that's right." Eggsy straightened his back and looked him right in the eye. "I'm also the guy who knows his damned name."

Bond was going to have to hurt this terrible boy. It wasn't his proudest moment, but sometimes a punch just has to be thrown.

"Out!" Q inserted himself between Eggsy and Bond, and a moment latter Eggsy was gone.

They were alone.

They were quiet.

Bond stayed still. He wasn't one to beat around the bush. "Are you two," and he was surprised to hear his voice catch, "seeing each other?"

Q's brown eyes widened comically. "We—Us—No. No." He shook his head. "We're just friends," he said quietly.

Bond exhaled, deep and relived. It wasn't supposed to be like this. A physical attraction he could accept, he could embrace. But the pleasure, the contentedness, to know that the mysterious tailor was no threat…It wasn't supposed to feel like this.

God he should be better at this too. He was a damn spy, a professional liar, but Madeline had left him and Alec was dead and Q had locked him out and he was not at his professional best. He was at his wit's end. His nerves were frayed. He was a little tipsy. And Q was finally, right there.

Q fidgeted with his hands, wringing them together. Extending his fingers in a graceful stretch. Tapping his leg with the tips of fingers, like there was a keyboard in front of him, or perhaps a piano, Bond noticed with some surprise. Q darted his eyes around the room, nervously. And then be blushed and Bond could barely restrain himself.

This was happening, Bond thought. Whatever he had come over here _talk_ about—he honestly couldn't remember what—could wait. This…beautiful, perfect, genius Q was right in front of him and Bond wanted more than anything to see him naked. He needed more of that pale skin, needed to tug on that silky hair, needed to taste his cock and fuck him until he—

"So," Q ran a hand through his thick hair. "You know. Do you want," he hesitated.

He waved his hand and Bond was fondly amused by his nervousness. Okay, maybe slamming him into a wall and smashing their lips together was off the table. He didn't want to startle him.

That was alright. Slow could be good too. Warmth spread through his body as he thought of the ways he could prolong the evening. Yes, he could do slow. Probably.

"I mean, you _are_ here to…"

"—to take you to bed?"

"—to talk about the Avengers?"

"Wait,"

"What?"

Q's face flushed beet red. "On my god."

"What? Oh my god."

"You had no idea. Oh, shit"

Bond hadn't moved, so why did he feel whiplash? He was still terribly distracted by Q, by his sheer presence and Bond's desire to touch. But he was agent, first. Always. "The Avengers are in London?"

Q practically fell on to the touch, and covered his face with his palms.

Bond snapped. " _That's_ why you locked me out of Q-Branch two weeks ago?"

"Don't yell at me, James Bond; I'm only trying to save the entire world on three hours of sleep a night!"

Bond huffed, not even knowing which part to be more pissed at. "Tell me what's going on." It wasn't a question.

"No."

"Tell me."

"No, 007." Q meant it. "I think it's time for you to leave." He leapt to his feet like the couch was on fire, and opened the door.

Bond glared, considering his options. In the last 60 seconds he had gone from thinking very filthy thoughts to learning that the Avengers were in London, working with MI6, working with Q, and the world was in danger.

His pulse raced. He flexed his toes, ready for action, ready for a fight. "This isn't over." He stalked through the door, feeling it slam behind him.

What the hell was going on?

He had to get into Q-Branch. Tonight. He would dynamite his way in, if he had to.

* * *

Tanner woke him at 3:30 AM.

He held the phone to his ear, his body still tucked into bed. Internally he ticked off what he most hoped it wasn’t. _Please don't let it be Russia. Please don't let it be Syria. Please don't let it be my ex-wife. Please don't let it be Bond._

"It's Bond."

"God fucking dammnit."

An hour later he was in the basement of MI6, in the heart of Q-Branch. Bond was tied up, literally tied up in the corner, being watched by eight of the night's guardsman. Bond had long-since given up on a cool, above-it-all-facade. He looked like he might have a rage-stroke at any moment.

"What do you expect me to do here 007?"

"Couldn't say. I'm not really a management type."

Moneypenny came in next, impeccably dressed in a tan dress and high heels, like it was Easter Sunday instead of 4:30 in the morning. Mallory felt a twinge of self-consciousness. He hadn't showered. He had only bothered to throw on yesterday's slacks and a wrinkled blue shirt, no cuff links. He knew that he could shower in his private office bath later, and have fresh clothes messengered, and he didn't want to keep his new prisoner waiting now did he? Bond and idle time didn't mix well. Like nitroglycerin and matches.

He briefly wished he had a slightly less attractive assistant, whose mere presence would not make him so self-aware of his own aesthetic plainness. No, he thought. Moneypenny was one of the most capable, savvy, loyal employees in MI6. So what if he was beautiful? He could get over it. He was a professional, and so was she. Also she was eleven years, four months and fifty five days younger than he was. Good god.

Moneypenny regarded M, Tanner and Bond. "Good morning, gentlemen. Does anyone have a breakfast order?"

Tanner, at least, cracked up. God bless Tanner. Mallory joined him. Bond was not amused but looked slightly less inclined to try tackling all eight armed guards while still tied up with rope.

"Where did we get the rope?" Mallory asked. Did they keep a huge pile of rope in MI6 somewhere, to tie people up? Wouldn't a zip tie be slightly more…modern? It should be remain a rhetorical question, to stay on task. "And really Bond, what were you hoping to accomplish? An arm-wrestling match with Captain America? A selfie with Thor?" Mallory found himself getting legitimately pissed off. It was so early!

Moneypenny's face softened, looking something like pity. "Sir, if I could have a word?"

They retreated to Q's office, Moneypenny shutting the door behind him. "He's not doing well."

Mallory tried not to let her obvious regard for 007 sway his feelings. It was true, he was not doing well. "On the tests? I've heard. It’s a disaster. To hear the instructors describe it, it’s the Titanic—"

"He and 008 were close. Not emotionally," she struggled for the proper words, "because they're double ohs—" obviously. But they were…pals? So far as double ohs can have best friends, they were best friends."

"Their jobs are dangerous." Mallory said. "They all know it. If Bond's at his tipping point, then we should discuss a proper retirement, not more field work."

Moneypenny nodded. "It's just that, when combined with the Q situation, I think he's quite out of his depth."

"There's a Q situation? That isn't resolved yet?" He could match wits with some of the most powerful men in the world. He could start revolutions, or end careers without breaking a sweat. He did not get involved with personnel issues in the lower decks, so to speak.

"It’s a long story. Don't fire him, yet?" She looked hopeful, and Mallory wondered if she had any idea of the high regard he held her in. Did she think it was high enough to subtly demand favors of him? She obviously didn't realize he felt a competitive twinge whenever she showed a fondness for Bond. Best to keep it that way.

"What do you recommend we do with him?"

She sighed, obviously relieved, and relaxed her stance. "Well, I think—"

The door behind her opened. "We have a big problem," Tanner said without preamble. "It's happening. Preliminary signal analysis says we have 20 minute or less until contact."

They all had their game faces on now. Time for a fight. M steeled himself. "Get Q here."

* * *

This was not going well.

Bond was still tied up, watching the situation like a hawk.

Steve and Thor were somewhere one sublevel below them all, giving chase to Loki, who popped in and out of the building before he could be caught, but never truly left.

The relatively normal MI6 employees would be arriving to work soon. And they had, you know, actual jobs to do—they weren't just a cover. M couldn't send them all home for the day.

Q watched, listened, and guided them over comms. They had a number of glass traps setup—Loki couldn't appear to walk through a totally sealed room, and they were counting on that. They just had to get him in one, and it was turning to be a lot harder than expected. Apparently he had learned from his experience when Shield had successfully imprisoned him aboard the helicarrier. And he was a Trickster god.

Q's eyes darted to James again. Q couldn't even process the near-miss tonight. Seriously, not yet.

He heard the buzz in the air, and felt the static. Instinctively he turned and saw a flash of green light.

Loki, son of Odin, appeared in the center of Q-Branch.

"What's all this?" He observed the security detail staying put on the perimeter of the room. "No one wants to play with a God?"

"They're not idiots; they're not here to hurt you," Q said.

"Q," Mallory stepped forward.

"Let him talk," Loki said. "The two heroes will take a few minutes to catch up to me." He glared, at Q, at everyone. Glaring just seemed to be his default facial expression, and Q made an internal comparison to the old M, Monaghan. Yes, Monaghan and Loki could have had some sort of glaring standoff competition.

That when Q noticed something. Q wasn't Bond, he didn't have super-observational spy powers, but he could make the odd connection now and again. "Are you tired, Mr…Odinson?"

Loki's face twitched.

"Running in and out of realms, out of cities all over the world, staying away from SHIELD…it all sounds exhausting. Would you like to sit down?" He genuinely had some sympathy, and he hoped it showed.

"Who says I'm running?"

And wow, suddenly Q was sure that was _exactly_ was going on.

"No one. And there's no one you'd obviously be running from. Certainly not from SHIELD—I mean you're obviously avoiding them, but they’re not a real threat to you. And you're not running from your brother, because why would you, he loves you, he'd forgive you for anything—"

Loki had a special glare for that.

"—and you're not running from the Avengers, or probably anything human because, why? I'm kind of thinking out loud here, bear with me, but…you need some help, don't you?"

"Help? From you? From a pale little mouse?"

Q had been called worse. "We don't want to hurt you, Mr. Odinson. This not-running you're doing, in and out of your world, however you're doing it, it’s causing tears in the very fabric of the world. I don't understand half of it, and that's saying something, but it’s like watching a quilt hit a snag, and then the threads around it are too loose, too easy to unravel. You're destroying us."

"It’s intentional, little mouse." Loki was angry, but just a little unsettled.

Q was pretty sure this whole conversation had thrown him for a serious loop.

By his calculations, Loki had been running through space non-stop for almost a month. And if he looked even the tiniest bit strained in front of his enemies, he must be exhausted. And if he felt he couldn't stop, he must be very desperate, or very scared. And he obviously didn't have anyone to talk to, and Q felt both scared of him and a little sorry for him.

Unfortunately the latter, the pity, must have been visible in his face.

"You think you know me," Loki said, scornfully. "How _dare_ you? How dare you presume to question the actions of an Asguardian, let alone our motivations? You are bugs, you are—"

Bond picked the worst moment to half-wrestle himself out of the chair and spit in Loki’s face! Several guards restrained him.

Loki moved his hand and a scepter and prepared to strike with some kind of magical doom.

Bond was still struggling and Q panicked. "Don't hurt him!" he said to Loki. He faced Bond. "007, stay still and be prepared to apologize. That was rude."

Neither party seemed interested in a peace settlement.

"Can I offer you some coffee?" Q tried. He had promised Thor he would try to save his brother, but the Avengers were coming now, and Loki wasn't getting any cooler-headed. "A place to nap? A sandwich?"

Loki changed suddenly. His face hardened, the tiredness morphing into what Q had suspected. Fear. "They're coming," he said. He forgot all about Bond.

"You can't honestly be afraid of your own brother."

Loki shook his head. "No, I am not." He took a step closer to Q. "Had I more time, little creature, I would use it to properly teach you the painful rewards of trying to _befriend_ me. I am no one's friend. Take comfort in knowing I will return to do this, someday."

"Not if whoever you're running from catches you first." Moneypenny had cut into the conversation, her voice cold and icy.

With one final all-around glare, he vanished in a flash of green light.

Everyone else relaxed their stance, just a smidgen. Everyone but Q.

"He's not going to stop," he mumbled. "He's not out to do it intentionally, but he'd rather destroy the whole universe than stop, because someone's chasing him, and I can't figure it out from here."

Whatever Q had expected Loki to be—pure evil from the sounds of Steve and Tony—this was something else.

He was like a really mean bully, who had been hurt very, very badly, Q thought. The kind of bully that the Avengers and the double ohs pulverized. They couldn't normally afford to look past a villain’s actions and understand why. But Q had promised Thor.

And Loki wasn't doing this to be evil. He was just very, very desperate. "I've got to try," he mumbled again, ignoring the voices he heard around him, probably M and Moneypenny and Tanner.

A thought crystalized in his head. He looked towards Bond. He was so beautiful, Q thought. For the first time, Q let himself wonder if his crush on James Bond was something more.

There was no time for a proper goodbye, not that he wouldn't be coming back. He would. After he saved the world.

Q broke off into a run, towards the last spot Loki had vanished, and then he was gone too.

He landed with a thud. Ooft.

Oh, Jesus, his back.

His entire body.

What had happened?

Who was he?

Where was he?

Why was…

HIs breathes were ragged.

His last conscious thoughts came back to him in snippets. The logical part of his brain—the strongest part of his brain—rearranged the thoughts until they made sense. He had been right. The small wormhole Q had escaped with had not collapsed instantly, although it was certainly gone by now. He had wormed his way through, so to speak.

How much time had passed since he had been in MI6? A day? A month?

What had the wormhole looked like, he asked himself. He couldn't remember anything. Only the pain of a hard landing.

There were voices again. Familiar voices, and instinctual emotional response to those voices grounded him.

"You have a twin?"

"No."

"I'm calling upstairs."

Q put names and faces to the voices. Tanner was talking to Alec. Wait, Alec was Alec and Alec was dead, except he was right there. Tanner said 007, so why did he look at Alec? Uh oh.

Wait, now they were talking about M. Did they just say _she_ could wait? Oh no.

Oh dear god, Tanner was wearing nursing scrubs.

Also, there was another copy of himself, another Q, standing between Bond and Trevelyan. Doesn't that just take the cake?

Alec—007—asked him who he was. He wheezed. "I am Q. And you have no idea how messed up this is."

It seemed as good a moment as any to lose consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next chapter:  
> Back to Track A!  
> Q's adventures being a doppelganger!  
> Curious Kingsman!  
> You can't keep a secret from Sherlock!


	3. Back to Track A

Track A

M stalked over to her chief of staff. "Where the hell are they?"

"Medical, ma'am."

"Voluntarily? That's a little suspicious isn't it?"

"Well—"

"Are they dying?"

"Presumably not."

"Get them up here." She frowned, with intent.

An intruder in the bloody building! Like this was some American action movie and their security forces were lazy dunderheads. Ridiculous.

That man, the one who thought he was some kind of ancient God, wearing green goat horns, was no stranger. He had known them. Asked to speak to them by title. And seemed to think that Shaun Holmes was still Q and that Alec was definitely not 007. Breaches in intelligence unnerved her even more than a breach in physical security.

She suppressed the urge to pace her office. She returned to the chair behind her desk. She wasn't above asking for help, but who could she call? Who could she get on the horn with and explain that a man dressed like a goblin had penetrated MI6 and leap frogged around their most secure levels, never letting them get close until _he_ decided to allow it. Demanded an audience, then threatened them with menace and malice. She didn't accept anyone threatening MI6 employees—even the ones on her shit list like Holmes and Bond.

Who was she going to call, indeed? The bloody Ghostbusters?

* * *

"Thank you for your patience." It was the fourth time they had heard the sentiment.

Moneypenny was ready to punch this lackey, even at the risk of destroying the tentative relationship between Kingsman and MI6. Luckily, after being offered yet another tray of tea and scones, they were left alone.

They were in a large, lovely office. The couch was expensive leather; Kingsman quality. The window had a spectacular view of the river.

Gareth Mallory set next to her on the couch, as tense as she had seen him in their short acquaintance. More tense than he had been when they had rescued him.

It had been five weeks ago.

The first week he had been in a medically induced coma, allowing the worst of physical injures to pass without conscious pain. Moneypenny had said goodbye to him, unconscious him, at the hospital. The mission had never been a rescue mission. They hadn't been looking for him—no one had been looking for him and she felt an unexplainable guilt at that. The poor man. When did someone decide to leave him for dead? She had said goodbye and returned to Kingsman to accept her next mission.

Harry and Eggsy had also been sympathetic to Mallory's situation, but it didn't seem to unsettle them as it had her. The puppy-love phase they were in didn't help. Not everyone at Kingsman had figured it yet, and they hadn't exactly advertised it to the new Arthur, so they felt allowed to be extra affectionate in her presence or in Merlin's. Merlin's threats to puke, and Moneypenny declaring herself to be a sympathetic puker didn't help. They were completely and ridiculously in love, and by all accounts, having quite a bit of sex.

She was happy for them, truly. But as she watched them sometimes—when they didn't know they were being watched—a cloud of loneliness passed by. Moneypenny had everything she had ever worked for; she wasn't just some ordinary field agent at MI5 or MI6 or Interpol, she was a Kingsman. The first woman, ever. Now, one of two, since she had sponsored Lancelot, that brilliant girl. She was well-off, with a gorgeous flat and a wardrobe other women would kill for. She loved the people she worked with; she had real friends in and out of work. But no one else. No family, no boyfriend, no lover. Like most Kingsman, she found it too hard to lie to the person she was supposed to be closest to. She couldn't imagine marrying some clueless nice guy who by definition couldn't be too smart or else he'd notice the lying. And dating at work? No, thank you. If women Kingman were thought of as mere Love Interests, she would blow up the building and end it all now.

Anyway, when Mallory had regained consciousness he had asked to speak with the agents who had rescued him. And he refused to be debriefed by military intelligence until the first request was met.

And so it was that MI6 reached out to the charming little tailor shop on Saville Row. Arthur, the old Arthur, had always said MI6 choose to regard them as urban legends, rather than directly acknowledge their presence. Kingsman were too talented and too useful to imprison. But neither did anyone in the British security service want to publicly admit to the need for some help.

Mallory was forcing everyone's hand.

So here she was. She had accompanied Mallory to a few debriefing meetings, full of strangers asking him horrible questions with near zero sensitivity. She was happy to play the role of friend, and protector, and someone whom he could trust.

Today, they had been waiting at MI6, where he was due to be debriefed by senior analysts and one of the double ohs. 007, she thought. They were interested in a sister-branch of the cell Kingsman had destroyed, and wanted to know about Mallory remembered about the personnel.

Privately, Moneypenny thought that after keeping them waiting for so long, they had a better chance of Mallory simply defecting than sitting quietly to answer their questions. No doubt they would be to the point, completely insensitive to what the man had endured over the years.

The door opened, and just as Moneypenny decided to stop her heel on the lackey’s foot, she found herself face to face with M.

M, the head of MI6!

"Miss Moneypenny. Mr. Mallory." Her voice was low and severe. "My apologizes for keeping you waiting. And my apologizes are never empty. We had an intruder in the building this morning and it has our best people quite busy."

Moneypenny knew that sharing this was an olive branch. M didn't have to tell them anything, certainly not anything so sensitive.

Mallory fidgeted in his suit. It was bespoke, a Kingsman suit of course—a gift from Harry actually—and he looked quite well in it. But he fussed with it, tugging at his tie, like a child. Or an adult man who had simply not worn proper clothes and sat in a proper sitting room in half a decade. "We'll return tomorrow." He stood and Moneypenny followed him, nodding once more at M before following him.

M appeared grateful.

When the two returned to the car park, they passed a cluster of men who were whispering with some urgency.

"We can't bring him to my home! How the hell am I going to explain to Rory?"

"We sure as hell can't leave him here!"

Moneypenny and Mallory exchanged glances and slowed down. They hadn't actually spoken very much since being reintroduced; they’d had happy luck communicating well without words. The message they shared now: _something's going on_.

Two tall, blond, fit men were dragging a third man between them. Like he was a drunkard being escorted home by annoyed friends. The man in the middle made direct eye contact with Mallroy. "M? Look, look everyone, it’s M." He sounded drugged.

The men on either side stopped at looked at Moneypenny and Mallory.

"Nothing to see here," said one. His short cropped hair was light, and his eyes were a pale blue.

"It's M," the dragged man repeated. He was looking right at Mallory. "M, you look as a terrible as I feel! Did you follow me through the wormhole?"

"Oh shit, you're Gareth Mallory," said one the other man. "I was supposed to meet you this morning, what three hours ago? Shit. We've had a bit of a situation this morning." He hesitated. "And, for…reasons…this drugged up young man has to be brought home. It’s a long story." He hesitated again. "MI6 business, you know."

"You're 007?" Moneypenny asked.

"Alec, please."

"Okay, Alec," she said. "Did he just say something about a wormhole?"

"Moneypenny!" the man the middle exclaimed. "I almost didn't recognize you! Whatever have you done to your hair…" His voice trailed off disapprovingly.

He was starting to freak her out. "He's starting to freak me out."

"It’s the drugs," the other man said quickly. He was probably a double oh too.

"Wait, _you're_ Mr. Moneypenny?" 007 asked. "Oh, sorry. I guess I just assumed you were a gent."

"That's alright. You being a double oh, I just assumed you were sexist."

The two men swapped confused glances.

And then two _other_ men rushed over. One was a plain man in a nurse's uniform. The other man could have been the twin of the one being dragged. The twins were both young, slender, with a mop of unruly brown hair and big brown eyes. "Okay," the twin said. "I'm pretty sure no one noticed any doppelganger shenanigans. Why the hell are we stopped?"

"Well, I'd love to learn more about Kingsman sometime," 007, Alec, said. "Not every day we meet vigilante spies with a few hundred million pounds backing them. Another time, perhaps. Dinner?" He added hopefully.

Mallory tensed even more, if that was possible.

"Concentrate Alec, for God's sake," the newly arrived twin said.

"Kingsman?" the man in the middle mumbled. He winced at the slightest movement. "You mean the tailor shop on Saville Row? Wait, they're _spies_!?" He winced again. "Ah, that kind of makes sense as I say it out loud. Im’ma kill Eggsy. Someone take me home, please. I need to vomit."

"Good day, Moneypenny, Mr. Mallory." 007 then addressed Mallory specifically. "Really, so sorry to have kept you waiting. You wouldn’t believe the morning we've had." He chuckled a bit.

The five men, two of whom were identical twins, resumed moving, ignoring Moneypenny and Mallory.

Moneypenny had a strong instinct to knock them all out with her wristwatch, and drag them back to Kingsman for interrogation. She had never spent time with MI6 spooks before, but these people were all acting very suspiciously, right?

Mallory obviously, silently agreed.

And this clearly injured, confused man recognized everyone, including her, and appeared to know Eggsy. She got just close enough again to hear their resumed argument.

"My place? No way. Your place is safer. You're already sleeping with him anyway, kind of. It won't raise any suspicions."

"What about Tanner's place?"

"No," the male nurse said humorlessly. "A thousand times, no."

They decided that nurse Tanner and 007 should return to MI6 straight away. The twins and the blue-eyed double-oh were effectively making a run for it. Tanner would come by later for a medical check-up on the injured twin. Alec would come if he could sneak away.

Moneypenny decided to let them go. She was technically still a guest of MI6 and she didn't want to start an inter-agency spy war. She also didn't want to cause undue upset to Mallory, who had probably seen enough violence for a lifetime.

As the men departed in their various directions, she and Mallory were alone again in the car park. "So," she said. "Did you know any of those men?"

He shook his head. "He really did say _wormhole_ , right?" The words were stilted, and Mallory grimaced as he said them, like they left a bad taste in his mouth.

Moneypenny furrowed her brow. "Yes, sir. He totally did."

* * *

It was a surreal ride back to their flat. James focused on the mission at hand: he had to get this other Shaun home quickly, and then get the rest of them back to MI6 before M noticed something was amiss.

He still had no bloody clue was what going on.

Shaun seemed to know a little more than him. In medical, he and his strange twin (evil twin? James wondered suspiciously) had started talking in technical-sounding, hushed tones. James couldn't understand all of it.

Q—that was what the other one had called himself—was clearly in pain, and Tanner administered painkillers to relieve it. When the painkillers kicked in, the rambling kicked up a notch.

As Q lay prone on the exam table, he quickly established everything wrong with "this universe." His words.

"One," Q said. "Why the hell is Tanner a nurse? Is it Halloween? No, a disguise then? Seriously?"

"Two," he continued, counting off the list on his fingers. "I could sworn Alec just said _she_ can wait, referencing M. Has Gareth Mallory had a sex change operation I don't know about? I hope so, when I consider the alternative."

"And three," he laid his hand down, as though he was too weak to lift an additional finger. "You, Alec Trevelyan, are not 007. I mean, you're dead, of course. We all know that. But _more_ importantly, you're not 007."

Alec paled like a ghost.

"I'm sorry," Q had said. "That was inconsiderate. If you knew how much my head hurt, and how bloody _confusing_ this is all is…This is still planet Earth? We're not slaves to the apes? Has Ubuntu replaced Windows?"

James had been speechless then. He was speechless now, an hour later in the car. Words formed and died on his tongue. He kept glancing in the rearview, to make sure Q was still there, and not just a figment of their imaginations.

Shaun, his Shaun, his perfect, stable as a rock Shaun, was the first to break the silence in the car. "Are you lucid enough to answer a few real questions?"

"I think so."

"You _are_ Shaun Holmes—me—from an alternate reality, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Did you come here intentionally?"

"Yes and no."

"Why are you here?"

James saw Q sag in his seat. "To save the world from a magical Norse God who's tearing it apart at the edges. My world. And I'm pretty sure your world too."

"The strange events in London?" Shaun said.

"Space-time is like a canvas getting torn out of its frame."

For something completely insane, it all sounded plausible enough, James thought. It actually made him sit up straighter and breathe easier.

Save the world. Finally, something he could do.

"I've never killed a God before, sounds novel."But the cheeky demeanor he was aiming for must have missed its mark, ever so slightly.

He felt a firm hand on his thigh. He caught Shaun's gaze from the corner of his eyes. They didn't need to say it. Fear, confidence, trust. Shaun mouthed _I love you_.

Q cleared his throat from the backset. "Did you just? Really?!" His voice had risen to a frantic yell.

James frowned and glanced in his rear-review mirror, about to ask what he was on about.

Q had fainted.

* * *

So this was what a hangover felt like, Q thought. He had never been quite drunk enough to find out—high security job and all. MI6 frowned on people who showed up to critical security situations needing a banana bag.

Reluctantly Q opened his eyes.

He was in a bedroom, but not his bedroom. Thick curtains were pulled shut—thank God for that. He was still wearing his clothes, now dirty and wrinkled, from this morning…This morning, when he had perhaps foolishly jumped through a residual wormhole and entered an alternate dimension.

Nurse Tanner had given him a big shot of morphine before they all got him out of the building. Other-Q, Other-Bond, and Still-Alive-Alec-Who-Was-Also-007?

"I guess that's the 'alternate' in AU," he muttered, pulling himself out of bed. Making sure he still had pants on—he did—he ventured out.

The flat was huge, historic and gorgeous. An 'old money' kind of flat, probably with original woodwork and crown molding. It was well lived in, though. The couches looked comfy, a handful of dirty dishes lie in the sink, and smiling faces in framed pictures.

His smiling face, and Bond's. Q surveyed all the photos around the living room and hallways. He and Bond, in Rome. In Paris. Out at a pub with a group of people Q didn't recognize. At Oxford college, with a pretty brunette girl standing between them. Some were just Bond and the same girl, his arm around her shoulders. Not like a Bond girl, too young and sweet, and their smiles were obviously familial. A niece or cousin perhaps? Did Bond have cousins?

Q's stomach rumbled. He looked at the clock. Bloody hell, he hadn't eaten in almost eighteen hours. No one appeared to be home. He didn't appear to be in any danger. So he helped himself to the cupboards, which luckily were filled with good food and drink. After a sandwich, Advil, and three bottles of water, he noticed the telly was turned on. It was paused.

He found the remote and pressed play.

"Hello, Q," said Q. Other-Q, that is.

"Hello," he said to the recording, because, why not?

"A couple of things. One is that James and I have returned to MI6. Things are bloody insane here today, and I think you know something about it. A crazy guy who looks like Tom Hiddleston with supernatural powers broke in this morning. And by the sounds of it, he's coming back to fuck with us at any moment. M's lost her shit enough to bring James and I back into the inner circle to try to figure something out. She doesn't know about you. So for god's sake stay inside, and don't try to find us. We'll be home for dinner in a few hours."

At the moment, he couldn't even really care about Loki and MI6. " _James_? We'll be home for dinner?" He wasn't crazy then. In this universe, they were together. Like, together together. Living together. And suddenly Q felt very uncomfortable sitting on their couches, eating from their plates. Sleeping together, he belatedly realized. This was getting too weird.

The doorbell rang.

He froze.

The doorbell rang again, and he bolted upright. His headache bit back at him. What was he supposed to do?

"Shaun, I know you're in there. Really, who do you think you're fooling?"

And wasn't that a surprise? No one from MI6 called Q 'Shaun.' Not M, not Moneypenny, not Tanner, not Bond.

It was his secret identity, dammit.

He cautiously approached the door, and looked through the peephole. A tall main with dark curls and sharp cheekbones stood outside, not bothering to conceal his annoyance. "Shaun!"

What the hell, the guy seemed to know the flat wasn't empty. He cracked open the door, leaving the chain latched. "What'd you want? I'm busy." He tried to sound equally annoyed.

The man looked at him, pupils widening, then sparking with electricity. "Hair has grown 2.5 inches, acne is 6% more severe, sweater not worn in 14 months, missing scar on right ear from when tried to jump to fight me for the last Bunsen burner in the house…"

"What're you on about?" Shaun was a hairsbreadth away from just slamming the door. His visitor was ranting like a mad man.

"Who are you?" The man asked. He leaned forward, menacingly, "And what have you done with my brother?"

* * *

Shaun got home from work first. M had James, Alec and two other double ohs reviewing security scenarios for the next time Mr. Hiddleston showed up. Privately, Shaun didn't think it would do a whole lot of good. They were obviously outmatched when it came to…magic…for God's sake.

The best chance they had to understand what was happening was the person in his flat.

Shaun went inside the flat. And saw this alternate self and Sherlock, deep in conversation.

Sherlock's eyes widened in shock and then triumph. "So, it's true!"

"Do you mind, big brother?" Shaun said. "I need to have a chat with myself." He waved in Q’s general direction.

"Not at all," Sherlock said magnanimously. "Please join us."

Shaun sighed. At least Mycroft hadn't dropped by for some tea and crackers.

Shaun's alternate self still looked like shit, despite now having enough strength to sit upright and carry a conversation. He wore the style of hideous sweater Shaun used to wear before James taught him how to shop. His alternate, who had introduced himself as Q. Yes, Shaun hadn't forgotten that part for a second. Whatever universe he had come from, he still had Shaun's dream job, and damn if that didn't make Shaun feel a little less sorry for him.

"Can I call you Q?" Shaun asked.

"Of course." He sounded confused. Then understanding dawned in his eyes. "And I take it I should _not_ call you Q?"

"IT help desk agent Shaun Holmes, at your service." He let some bitterness slip through. Just last week he had heard that Alec and 009 had joined Q-Branch for an honest-to-god Scrabble tournament. It had nearly torn his heart out. James had squeezed his arm knowingly and said that the double ohs had a secret game night that not even M knew about. The first game James had missed, after his demotion, had been Twister. They both cracked up at the ridiculous of it all.

Q absent-mindedly pulled on the edges of his sweater. "I'm sorry." He swallowed. "I'm sorry—this is all confusing for me. I'm still trying to see how our two universes are similar and different."

"That makes two of us."

Sherlock coughed. "I've probably figured it out farther than either of you," he said.

"Shut up Sherlock," Shaun said, expected Q to join in simultaneously. He didn't. Hmm. "You don't yell tell Sherlock to shut up at regular intervals? What, are you best friends or something?" The silence was palpable. "Oh. So…"

God, was Sherlock dead?

Shaun felt weak.

Sherlock's amusement vanished. "He doesn't have any brothers at all Shaun. He was an only child, raised by the Daltons, I deduce."

Q nodded. "That’s right."

Shaun poured three glasses of whiskey. "I think you better start from the beginning."

And he did. Q gave his whole life story, starting with the death of his parents in a car accident, followed by his safe but unhappy upbringings by uncle and aunt, who mostly traveled, and left Q in a special flat for unsupervised rich children and young adults.

Q had not one but TWO cats (Mothra had _never_ tolerated a playmate, Shaun thought, how was this possible?!).

He had been promoted to Quartermaster shortly before the Skyfall incident, when he met James, and when the old M met her demise(?!). He tried to downplay how great it was being QuarterMaster, out of pity for his Shaun, but it was obvious enough. Of course being QuarterMaster was the greatest job in the world. Hard to sugarcoat.

Things started sounding familiar when he described the strange events taking place in London, Paris, Rio and around the world. Q said it was a Norse God named Loki, who had previously tried to destroy New York and _enslave the human race_.

"Seriously?"

Loki was the one running a snag through the great quilt of a universe. If he didn't stop soon, the damage would be irreversible, in this world and Q's. They had to get him to stop, by any means necessary.

It was all completely ridiculous. Avengers? Thor? The Tesseract?

"Yeah," Q said. "We're still getting our heads around it too. But once you experience it, it's hard to deny anymore. Brave new world, right?"

Sherlock was still frowning. "But you're sure you don't have _any_ brothers? Perhaps you just don't realize—"

"Sherlock—" Shaun said with a note of warning.

"Isn't it obvious, Shaun?" Sherlock snapped. "He doesn't have James. They're not together. He doesn't have me, or John, or Mycroft, or Lestrade—"

"Wait a minute, how many of you are there?" Q said, confused. "Are these all brothers?"

"—he's alone." Sherlock said. "I have deduced that he is completely and totally alone."

Q sagged, acknowledging it as the truth. "Thanks, no one's ever put it quite that like that." He stood up. "I think I need some air." He went onto the balcony and Shaun threw a pillow at Sherlock. "Brilliant work as always."

"I'm not happy about it," Sherlock said defensively. "Quite the opposite. I hope it's that he simply doesn't realize he has brothers. Maybe we’re out there somewhere, in his world."

"You know, you and Mycroft HATED it when James and I got together."

"We changed our minds," he said simply. He said nothing else, but his mind was clearly racing, and each new conclusion or deduction made his eyes darken.

Shaun thought he could guess well enough what Sherlock pondered. "You're not worried about a universe where you don't exist," Shaun said. "You're worried about a universe where you don't have John, the way Q doesn't have James."

"It's possible," Sherlock said, grave. "What if we're all out there in this other universe—John and Mycroft and Lestrade and Molly and Mrs. Hudson and all of us—apart? All of us, alone?"

Three years ago Sherlock had told John he didn't have friends. He avoided his brothers—Shaun and Mycroft still both obsessed with their careers. How far had they all come that Sherlock's worst fear of an alternate reality was that they weren't together? Shaun came to sit by his big brother. He wrapped his arms around him in a hug, and he could practically hear Sherlock's eye roll. "It's all going to be okay, Sherlock."

"Unless Loki tears apart the universe by its very molecules."

Shaun tensed. "We'll find a way to stop him. After all, there are two of me now."

* * *

Shaun—Q had decided to simply call his alternate self 'Shaun'—called him in. It was cold and dark outside now. Q belatedly realized he couldn't feel much of his fingertips anymore, let alone his ears.

He didn't leap into a wormhole to feel sorry for himself. So what, if some other version of him had a whole family? He couldn't do anything about that in his universe. What he _could_ do was save this world from Loki. Shaun's world. And his world. James's world. Bond's world. He steeled himself to remember what he could and could not change, and to focus only on the former.

Shaun and Sherlock were in the kitchen.

"Listen, Sherlock's sorry about before."

"Not really. I was right."

"See, brothers aren't all they're cracked up to be." Shaun chuckled, too loud. It was exactly the kind of weak joke Q would make, he thought. "Just be glad the other one's not here."

"He will be, give or take ten minutes."

"What?!" Shaun dropped his glass. It shattered to the floor. He ran to his phone and pressed a speed dial. "Tell me you canceled family dinner tonight?! No, _I_ didn't cancel it, you were cancelling it."

"It's too late," Sherlock said, loud enough to be heard over the phone. "Cancelling now will look too suspicious."

"Fine," Shaun said. He looked at Q, who couldn't feel more like an outsider. Q shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Sorry. It's just that Sherlock's boyfriend John, and our older brother Mycroft, and Mycroft's boyfriend Lestrade are all coming—"

Q tiled his head. Everyone was gay?

"And James's daughter Rory, who's American but studying abroad in London this year—"

Whoa, Q thought. Daughter? Daughter!

"—and Rory's vagabond boyfriend Jess, who is very American and whom James despises."

Q cleared his throat. "Is that all?"

Shaun nodded. "We do a family dinner once a week, for the past few months. No one really thought it would work, but you know…I mean, no one's died yet." He said it like it was the best possible outcome of all those people being in the same room.

"Family dinner." Q repeated. "It sounds….normal." Depressing.

"That's actually something of a contest we have each time—most normal couple—but I digress. Um, I don't think most of them could handle this," he waved between the two of them, "so we need to get you out of here right now before they start coming up."

Q nodded. "Right. Alright." It's not like he had a ton of choice. He had half a mind to swing by Kingsmen tailors and give Eggsy a piece of his mind. And figure out why Moneypenny and Mallory seemed to be affiliated with them and not MI6. Actually..."I don't suppose you could just send me off to a cafe with a laptop all night? Give me a chance to figure out where the hell I am." He didn't mean for it to come out so sad. But really, traveling to an alternate universe was turning out to be kind of depressing. Having all the facts was usually the best medicine.

Also, he had to stop Loki. He couldn't lose sight of that. He didn't have months or weeks. At best, he might have a few days. Save the world, save the world—so what if he didn't have family dinners like this lucky bastard Shaun.

The doorbell rang.

All three simultaneously swore. "Bullocks."

And then the door swung open.

* * *

"Can we try to be the normal ones, for once?" Lestrade ran a hand through his hair, trying to put the strands in a semblance of structure. He had been in the office since six AM, and after twelve hours of listening to Donovan and Anderson, had been tugging his hair a little too hard.

"We already are the normal ones," Mycroft said, straightening his tie. "You're a respected detective inspector, and I'm an efficient government bureaucrat."

"We've never won this family dinner."

Mycroft paused. "Indeed." Another pause. "I do like winning."

"So, no causing a scene with Sherlock?"

"I'd never."

Right, according to Myc, Sherlock was the one who caused the scene, and it was patently unfair that both of them were penalized weekly for it. "Promise, Myc."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, just so. "Pinky swear, my love."

Lestrade couldn't help his little smile as they walked up the stairs to James's and Shaun's flat.

Of course, Lestrade had been reasonably pissed to find out there was a third Holmes brother only after said brother lost his high clearance job, but he had bigger fish to fry. And besides, Shaun was a nice guy. And James generously shared his very fine scotch, which Lestrade far preferred to those fancy wines that Mycroft ordered.

Lestrade knocked and a moment later went right on in. Shaun usually just yelled that it was open anyway. He could tell something was amiss the moment Shaun ran to meet them, using his foot to keep the door partially closed. "Hello." giving

Mycroft squinted.

Lestrade crossed his arms.

Holmes boys and their drama. It was going to be that kind of night, he could tell. But hey, it Shaun was acting cagey tonight, then he and Mycroft were in the lead for Most Normal.

Shaun cautiously allowed them to enter. Mycroft and Lestrade exchanged suspicious, delighted glances. The game, as Sherlock would say, was on. What was Shaun up to?

And what do you know? Sherlock was there too. Lestrade's suspicion rating jumped 100 points. Mycroft’s, probably 1000. "Evening," Lestrade said good naturedly.

Nothing seemed amiss in the flat. He had been over there for family dinner night once a week for months, so he had a good baseline. He and Mycroft silently agreed to divide the room into search zones. Lestrade took the right. No signs of a fight, or physical damage. Nothing missing or broken. Nothing haphazardly covered up with a rug or a loose jacket thrown about.

"Help us setup the sandwich bar," Shaun said.

"That sounds excellent," Lestrade said, almost rubbing his belly in anticipation.

"Deli meat?"

"Shut up Mycroft," Sherlock said.

With that, Mycroft and Lestrade's investigation was put on pause, and they worked together to setup a line of bread, deli meats, cheese, veggies and condiments. Shaun looked quite pleased with himself.

Watson came over next. By then Shaun seemed to have gotten a little more comfortable, enough that Watson didn't notice anything amiss. Watson shrugged off his jacket. Lestrade realized he still had his on, and did the same. "I'll take that for you Watson."

"Thanks, mate," John said, tossing him the jacket. Lestrade didn't bother for Mycroft's—he would never put his very expensive jacket in with a dusty old hall closet. Lestrade walked a few steps to the closet, as Mycroft and Sherlock argued about the strange occurrences around London.

"It's insane," Lestrade said as he walked. "They're insane. They're just bloody nuts. I mean a car can't be a Camaro and then five minutes later transform back into an Audi, any more than it could become Cinderella's pumpkin carriage. But the sheer quantity of them that are starting to come out of the woodwork—it's worse than a full moon. Worse than Halloween."

Lestrade opened the closet door.

Shaun was standing inside the hall closet.

Oh, crap.

Lestrade froze.

Shaun, the one in the closet, who was wearing a hideous wool sweater, gave a weak little wave, and put his fingers to his lips, in a "shhhh" gesture. He extended his hand and Lestrade passed him the jackets, not sure what else to do.

Shaun in the closet nodded and pointed to a hanger, like he'd hang them up in a moment, since he was inside the closet anyway. He gave Lestrade a thumb's up, quite awkwardly.

Lestrade closed the closet door. And turned. He hadn't blinked since he opened the door.

Shaun—the normal Shaun in a nice dress shirt and slacks—stared at Lestrade from the other side of the kitchen table, obviously having seen the entire affair. Normal Shaun also did the "shhhhh" gesture, putting his finger to his lips.

Mycroft and Sherlock had somehow wound up on the far end of the living room, away from the closet. Sherlock postulated that someone could be attempting to re-ignite the paranoia of the American Salem Witch Trials. Mycroft was investigating contamination of the water supply.

"That sounds about right." Lestrade mumbled. So much for winning the Normal award tonight.

Rory and Jess arrived next. They were a sweet little couple. So full of innocence and wisecracks and obscure literary references. Lovely couple. "Shaun," he said, louder, "where does James keep the good stuff?"

"I'm all over it," Shaun assured him. They shared a knowing glance, where Shaun seemed to say 'please don't say anything and you can have James's best-est secret-est scotch.' Or at least that have _better_ been the message.

* * *

"You alright Greg? You're looking a little green."

Greg swallowed. "Am I?"

John furrowed his brow. "What are your symptoms?" By the looks of it, nausea, dizziness, and perhaps a general confusion.

"Am I?"

Scratch that, John thought, definite confusion. He better get Mycroft. "My—"

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, rushing over. "Do stop trying to over-diagnose the dinner guests. We get it: you're a doctor. No need to be a show-off too."

"What? _I'm_ a show-off?" He glared at Sherlock, who had the decency to duck his head. A slight flush came over his face. He leaned in close to John. "Want to go snog on the patio?"

"I think Greg's actually ill, Sherlock."

"That's not a No." He grinned cheekily.

John paused. He tried to cover the grin on his face. He shouldn't encourage Sherlock, he shouldn't. But yes, he totally did want to go the patio and kiss Sherlock until they were breathless.

There was a crashing noise of some kind—not especially loud or dangerous, but perhaps something in the kitchen that had fallen to the floor. John wouldn't have even looked—learning to not respond to every noise as an attack was a conscious exercise his therapist helped him with—but Sherlock disappeared like the Tasmanian devil.

"John," Greg said.

John extended his neck over and up, trying to see what had caught Sherlock’s attention so, but felt guilty when he saw Greg's face again. "Yes, I mean yes?"

"We have a deal, right?" Greg looked at him, suspicious and very grave.

All John's thoughts about Sherlock went on pause. "You mean," John whispered. " _The_ deal?"

Greg nodded.

Of course they had a deal. John, James and Greg: the Holmes' boyfriends just trying to get through life without their boyfriends being kidnapped, killed or overdosing. It wasn't easy, and the Holmes' wouldn't be pleased if they knew, but John, James and Greg had formed something of a secret alliance to act in their collective best interest when necessary. And to inform on each other when a major secret was at play, something that one brother was keeping that could cause the little family they'd built to come tumbling down. It was The Deal.

If Greg was talking about The Deal, something was seriously wrong.

Greg stared off into space. "Just when I think it can't get any stranger," he took a big gulp of his drink, his eyes popping as it hit his throat. He never finished his sentence. Annoyance flashed on Greg's face. "Myc's going to pay for keeping this one a secret. Unacceptable. Assuming I'm not crazy, that is. Then I'm definitely pissed at him. Assuming Myc even knows."

"What?"

"If you'll excuse me, I need my **_coat_**." He was so serious John thought he might have said coat and meant _**gun.**_

At that moment, the door opened and James Bond practically fell through it. He was just slightly out of breath, which meant he had run all the stairs. Hell, possibly he had run from MI6. He was tense, light on his feet, sprung for action. And when he saw them all, just finishing their meal preparation and sitting down to eat, he eased his stance and belatedly smiled. "Hello everyone."

"Something's going on," John said. Beside him, Greg took another drink.

* * *

Of all the days for there to be not one, but two traffic wrecks on his way home! How dare these inconsiderate assholes cause thousands of commuters to be waylaid because of their reckless driving? James fumed.

It had obviously been too late to cancel Family Dinner. Which meant the entire family was either getting used to having two Shaun's in the family, or Q was hiding somewhere in the flat.

James ran all the way upstairs, like he had a physical bomb to diffuse instead of a situational one.

As he pushed open the door, and practically fell through it, he was faced with seven members of his immediate and extended family. And only one version of Shaun.

"Hello." He took off his coat. "What'd I miss?"

Rory bless her, didn't say anything about his unusual entrance—and she was a smart girl, who had no doubt noticed it. He couldn't be prouder of Rory. Such beauty. Such social graces.

Shaun stood up and went to the kitchen in the back of the flat. Sherlock followed, and flicked his head towards…the closet in the side hallway. Oh, why not? Q was in the closet.

"I just don't see how you can't see it Sherlock," Q slammed the plate against the countertop. "Measuring fiber strength in grams per denier, when both fibers are clamped in a set of jaws, is a completely unrealistic and irrelevant test of strength. It's amateur."

"Amateur!?" Sherlock scoffed. "Let's see you come up with a better way to measure breaking elongation from an IT help desk!" He also slammed a glass down, and it shattered on the floor.

"Sherlock, not again!" John was out of his chair now. "I thought we settled this argument last week, for God's sake."

Lestrade was closest to James. He cast a furtive glance, and sighing, mouthed, "Diversion."

James spy instincts kicked into gear. Q and Sherlock's ridiculous and vitriolic argument—which James did not understand at all—allowed him enough cover to open the closet door, toss his coat in, and for Q to sneak off further down the hallway, towards Rory's bedroom. Q disappeared from view, and James breathed a sigh of relief.

Everyone else had been successfully distracted by the diversion. Even Rory and Jess, though still in their seats, were oddly transfixed.

Everyone except Lestrade. He whispered, "What the hell is going on?"

Like a magician pulling away the curtain, James let all of today's confusion and exhaustion seep into his face, permitting Greg see the full force of it. He probably aged ten years in ten seconds. Greg nodded sympathetically. Indeed.

Greg passed him a decanter of James's own Scotch, which strictly speaking should not have been for company, but what the hell? Tonight they were breaking all the rules.

James couldn't pay much attention through the rest of dinner. He tried, but it was just too much. Another version of Shaun, from another universe, here? A universe where, from what James had gathered, he was still 007 and Shaun was still Q. A perfect universe, James thought. Just the way things were meant to be.

Since his mandatory retirement James thought he had grown quite a bit in emotional intelligence—all that free time not spent defusing bombs and driving into volcanoes. Enough to acknowledge that the existence of such a perfect universe hurt. There! His old shrinks would be so proud of him. He was Bond—James Bond—and he was hurt and confused and upset.

What did this other Q want, to rub it in? He wondered where the two universes had diverged. Was it something James did? Did he make a better decision, or avoid a mistake? Did he see Silva coming? Did he stop Silva from killing every person in the parliamentary hearing? It was enough to make him sick. He really hated overthinking things.

Q had said he was here to help, and James ultimately believed him. But still. 007.

Rory gently tapped him with her foot, and sweetly smiled. He returned his focus to the room, embarrassed to have drifted so far. He took in the sight of his charming daughter, his friends Greg and John, Shaun's absurd and ridiculous brothers, and of course Shaun himself. The love of his life. It was such a strange gathering, but he could appreciate how special it was too.

A year ago he was a double oh agent. But he also didn't have anything like this. It was perfect actually—except for Rory's boyfriend Jess, obviously—and life was too short to whine about what went wrong, James decided. He would appreciate what he had and never look back.

He inhaled deeply and felt his lips tug upwards in a smile.

From the other side of the table, Q's eyes twinkled, seeming to ask, 'what are you up to, James? '

At that moment, James was decided: it was time to put a ring on it.

* * *

Two hours had gone by, even more quickly than usual. Rory thought she had seen some strange Friday night dinners, but her dad's boyfriend's brothers were something else.

She liked all of them. Maybe it was because they were so obviously in love—even crisp Mycroft, who turned a little gooey when Greg was near. It was the sweetest thing. Like Mom and Luke. She wished her dad wouldn't quite look so ill whenever she held Jess's hand throughout the night, but Shaun had always reassured her Dad would be fine. Shaun had told her a few weeks ago, "Don't worry Rory. If James was really going to kill Jess, he would have done it by now."

They were all in the living room now, playing cards. The Holmes weren't allowed at card games—Dad said it was a game for 'mere mortals', banishing Shaun, Mycroft and Sherlock to play some strange game of their own. Rory wasn't much for cards either, especially after a few glasses of wine, and found herself wandering to her old room.

She had hardly ever stayed here as a child. Dad was the cool dad, driving into Stars Hollow on a motorcycle or some classic car, with an expensive suit and lots of presents. They would spend days together, having the time of their lives, before he would leave. Sometimes he didn't come back for months, and she had to get better at pretending that it didn't hurt. But he once let it slip that he kept a bedroom for her in London—always, just in case. Even though she had never been there, ever. Her mom had relented and let Rory come here, now and then. And despite the few times she had actually slept in the bed, she did think of it as _her_ room. She liked that her dad always made room for her, even if the timing hadn't always worked out.

She opened the door, not bothering to knock.

And found Shaun, sitting on the bench next to the small antique vanity. He was reading Swann's Way and looked up when she entered.

"Shaun?"

"Ah…Rory." He hesitated, and shut the book.

"What're you doing back here?" She turned her head back towards the living room, where she thought the Holmes brothers had been. She couldn't see them from this angle, but she was sure—

"It's just part of the game. Hard to explain. Holmes stuff."

She nodded. It didn't occur to her to interrogate him.

"You alright?" he asked.

"Oh yeah, just maybe a little too much wine. I think you gave us some stronger stuff than usual, buddy," she gave him a friendly nudge, and could have sworn he mumbled something like, "—probably a good idea."

"Dad and Jess are out there," she said. She sat on the bed. "Dad's staring him down playing _I am an assassin_ head games, while holding a pair of twos."

Shaun just listened, nodding. He was so good like that.

"I just don't see why Dad doesn't see it. How much Jess means to me. I mean, this isn't exactly the dinner for conventional couples—how are _we_ the weird ones?"

Shaun crinkled his nose. "Well, you know. I mean I'm sure, that, you know—"

"Can I ask you something," Rory said. "Like, something a little personal?"

"Oh boy."

Rory plowed on, only vaguely aware that the wine had loosened her tongue perhaps more than it should. "When I came to London, I was really looking forward to spending tons of time with Dad and getting to know him as an adult and having a better relationship with him. And then boom, he tells me has a boyfriend he's never mentioned, and you're only ten years older than me, and I know when we first met, I was a little weird about it."

"I didn't notice," Shaun said, and he appeared complete honest.

But she was weird, she insisted, and her dad was a super-spy or something, so of course he had noticed. "I got over it really quick though," she said. "By like, the next day, I was on board the Shaun and James train, and I didn't even tell you that my mom has named you 'Shames' when she talks to me. Because you're not some Evil Stepmother or some young…person taking advantage of him." She blushed rather than say rent boy aloud. "You're awesome, Shaun Holmes, and he loves you so much, and what if Dad is punishing Jess for me being weird around you guys, at first?"

"Hmm," Shaun ran a hand through his hair.

Was his hair a little longer than it had been at dinner?

And had he been wearing that ugly sweater all night?

"Well," he continued, "I think you're probably overthinking it. Dads and boyfriends. They're always going to be water and oil, right?"

"Shaun, earlier tonight were you—"

"Can we go back a minute?" Shaun said suddenly. "Did you, did you say that he loves me?" He squeaked a little, then coughed, and started at her very, very hard.

What the heck was going on around here?

Sounds from the living room became audible in Rory and Shaun's silence. "Twist it."

"Pull it."

"Flick it."

"Bop it."

Oh no, Bop It only came out as a last resort when two people were about to kill each other. It was a tradition Rory had brought over with her from Stars Hollow, and the Holmes had taken to it quite well.

Just as she was about to rush into action, Lestrade came in. "Oh good, you and…Shaun are here. Been looking for you…two." He waved awkwardly to Shaun. "Rory, we have a Bop It emergency."

"Sherlock and Myc?"

" _James and Jess._ "

"Oh my god! Come on Shaun," she dragged his arm and pulled him up from the chair.

Shaun struggled backwards so hard that he tumbled over the vanity bench and fell onto the floor. "I'm alright!" he exclaimed.

"I'll stay with Shaun, you go, Rory," Lestrade said.

Rory rolled her eyes. "Come on, I'll need you both to avoid open war."

Against Shaun's objections and Greg's inherent mumbling, she made sure they both followed her out into the living room.

Dad and James were in the center, each of them looking livid, with their hands on the game device Bop It. They were tugging it so hard she feared the plastic would break.

"Boys!"

* * *

Lestrade was 100% done. Fuck this. His whole night was consumed with keeping the Two Shauns' secret—he was now pretty sure that Shaun, Sherlock and James were in on it, but _not_ Myc and _not_ John, and now Rory was escorting one Shaun by the elbow while the second Shaun was in the kitchen!

He looked towards the kitchen, panicked.

Normal Shaun saw him, and dropped to the floor like he had been shot.

Lestrade exhaled sharply, and looked for Mycroft. Mycroft had, for the tenth time that night and by some kind of miracle, been looking the wrong way. He stared at Greg somewhat funnily, and then, recognizing that Greg had a secret—no, a _big_ secret—looked at him so intensely he seemed to stare into his very soul.

Mycroft was stare-interrogating him, Greg realized with some indignation. Like a bloody terrorist.

Greg shrugged his shoulders and tried not to look too defensive. He wanted to shout, "Don't blame me for the fact that your brother has an evil twin. I'm just here for the pie."

Mycroft was on his feet, ignoring the Cold War between James, Rory and Jess. He observed the room, and everyone in it, anew.

Greg tried not to sweat. Mycroft was too good. This thing was about five minutes from blowing up.

Mycroft headed towards the kitchen and Greg intercepted him. Mycroft stalked around the center island, and Greg tried not to crack up in hysteria as Normal Shaun tip-toed around the same island, trying to stay a few steps ahead of Mycroft's gaze.

Mycroft eyed Sherlock, very suspiciously. "Where is—"

And the words died on his lips. He was looking at evil!Twin Shaun, as Greg had taken to calling the other one in his mind (even though the other one appeared even _more_ meek and geeky than Normal Shaun).

evil!Twin Shaun was standing next to the living room wall, apparently trying to blend in with the wallpaper and disappear through sheer force of will.

Mycroft's mouth fell open, his jaw threatening to spill on the floor. "Who. Is. That."

* * *

Shaun had nearly thrown out his back falling so fast. Lestrade's face had been pure panic, and then of course Mycroft would know something was up.

Shaun heard the words. Not Mycroft's usual amused drawl. No, this was pick-axe sharp. "Who. Is. That."

Right, Mycroft probably would have noticed the difference just from a 0.05% difference in body fat alone. So taking into account the hair, the sweater, the different glasses—Mycroft probably felt like he was looking at a cartoon imitation someone had drawn on the Tube.

Before Mycroft would kidnap and kill the imposter, Sherlock shouted at the top of his lungs. "Party's over!!!"

Rory, Jess, and James came to a halt. John had been in the corner, observing the madness unfold. Everyone looked to Sherlock.

"James," Sherlock said meaningfully.

James blanched. "Right. Off you go then, Rory, Jess."

Rory and Jess traded confused looks. "Seriously, you're kicking us out?"

James sagged his shoulders. "Of course not. Um. Grown up stuff. Will explain later." He turned to Jess. "If you have her back in the dorms later than one, I will find you and make you suffer." He handed them a one hundred pound note. "I think it's safe to say you won the 'Most Normal' couple award—ten times in a row, I shouldn't be surprised. This should cover an age-appropriate film, and a nightcap in a public setting."

"Bambi and biker bars it is," Jess said seriously.

James ushered them out, with apologizes to Rory. He shut the door and turned to face the room.

Shaun stood up from behind the island. It was all out there in the open now. Shaun and Q, on display for everyone. There was silence in the room.

John Watson came out of the restroom. John slammed to a halt and Q practically heard the scuff marks as they appeared. "Holy God, it's a Shaun-Clone!"

"Evil twin?" Greg asked.

"Alternate universe," Mycroft said quite confidently, chest puffing up with pride.

"How do you know?"

"Elementary, my darling."

Shaun walked over to Q. They stood side by side, in view of all the people closest to him. "Nobody panic," Shaun said.

"Except, it's also time to panic," Sherlock added.

"Nope, no one's panicking," Shaun said emphatically. "This is…Q. He's our temporary guest. And we hope by next week he'll be back in his universe, for all our sake's. And it goes without saying, _no one_ can know about this."

The Holmes brothers and their men came to a silent accord.

John raised his hand tentatively. "Next week at dinner, we can ask questions?"

"Yes."

" _All_ the questions?"

"Um—"

Sherlock smiled. "He's wondering if you're all having a three-way tonight."

"That is _not_ what I was going to ask!"

Shaun wasn't some blushing virgin, but he was red-faced and giggling. He caught a glance from James, who looked tired but amused.

Then he caught Q's eyes. Q did not appear amused. Shaun shrugged, as he had earlier. "I told you brothers aren't all they're cracked up to be." But his comment just pushed Q from awkward to sad. Shaun could recognize sadness in his own face.

Family Dinner Night wrapped up shortly after. Mycroft and Greg were the last ones out. Shaun promised to call and fill in Myc tomorrow—Myc of course already knew about the intruder at MI6 today and could put two and two together. As Mycroft and Lestrade stood shoulder to shoulder, getting ready to leave, Q overheard them in the distance.

"…still think _we_ should have won that bloody contest tonight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next chapter:  
> Jumping Tracks to Track C!  
> Yep, its dark!Universe Time!


	4. Track C

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Track C is the third and final track. One major character is dark/evil, one major character has already passed away, and one is seriously grieving.

Track C

 * * *

JUMPING TRACKS

* * *

Mallory poured himself a small night cap, enjoying the smooth burn and the warmth in his belly. Eve came down the stairs and joined him. She wore a silk nightgown. Her long hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. "Anything on the news?"

"More strange stories coming out of London," he said. "It's like the whole city's breathing in hallucinogens."

"Should we be worried?"

"I don't know. You aren't seen Elvis lately, have you?"

She wrapped her arm around him, and they went upstairs and got ready for bed. Tucked in beneath a pile of heavy blankets, Eve curled into his side. The cabin they were in was not well insulted, and Scotland wasn't exactly known for having a temperate winter. No fewer than four feet of fresh snow surrounded every side of the cabin, save for the pathway he had shoveled earlier that day. Of all the safe houses in MI6, he didn't see why they couldn't have had Cancun. He really must speak to Tanner, and that staunch goblin of a woman running things. "Goodnight, love."

She was already half asleep, a small smile remaining on her lips.

An hour water, he jolted awake when his wristwatch vibrated. He shoved the covers off and the bustle woke Eve immediately. The house was dark, and the curtains were drawn. But they still moved quickly and efficiently. He had a Walther in his hand in three seconds, and she had her Sig Sauer even faster.

He looked at the display on his watch. It was illuminated, but with a soft red that wouldn't attract too much attention. "Contact South. One signature. Moving fast, snowmobile probably. We've got ninety seconds 'til he's at the front door, and probably ten minutes until a double oh shows up on a white horse." He cursed himself for being too stubborn to accept a nice underground bunker in a military base.

"We can do it," she said, totally confident.

We have to.

* * *

Alec approached the little cabin in snowy Scotland. He had gone radio silent. No way to know who's listening these days. It's not like he needed backup from some geek in Q-Branch. He was Alec Trevelyan for God's sake.

He hadn't gotten much intel on this whole thing, only to get there urgently before the enemy did.

There was no way to know if he was too late. The cabin looked dark, uninhabited. It could have been safely evacuated hours ago. It could also be an ambush.

A single shot flew by his ear, just as he was turning his head. How joyous. He was indeed not alone. Made things more interesting, at least.

An interesting it was. Alec guessed there were at least two shooters—Mallory and Moneypenny no doubt. They were both excellent. If he gave them an inch of cranium, they would not miss. This was fun.

"You know what's also fun?" Alec said out loud, to no one in particular. "Grenades." He pulled the pin and launched it through an upstairs window. Then two more, each through the living room windows. He God damned loved grenades. He'd like to get M&M's thoughts on grenades, if possible, before he killed them.

In the momentary distraction, Alec snuck inside the burning cabin. The heat itched at his face, especially his scar. Even after all these years, too much heat could make it feel like a phantom scab was melting. He kept his eyes open for any movement.

It was all rather anti-climactic really. Upstairs he found Moneypenny, collapsed on the floor. She had been hurt, badly. A trail of blood streamed from her forehead, and a larger open from her torso. She was awake though, and looking at him with pure hatred.

"They say all psychopaths love a good fire," she said. "Should have known years ago. You always ended up setting off twice the number of explosions than anyone else, even Bond."

"It's true," he said, happily. "Now, Mrs. Mallory," he leaned over. "Where are your husband and son?"

* * *

Mallory swung the candlestick with all his might, crashing it into Alec's skull. "Right fucking behind you."

But Alec didn't go down, and they were out of guns that hadn't been blown to hell. Mallory breathed heavy and braced when Alec attacked. They went crashing to the other side of the room. He gave no thought to the burning safe house, or even to his lovely wife who was hurt.

He had to kill Alec. Because Alec would show no mercy to his nine-year old son, who had run and hid downstairs in a little compartment below the living room sofa.

Alec was younger. He was a former double oh. He was bloody insane. But it was more than that. After a few minutes of hard, bloody, sweaty fighting, Mallory was convinced. "Are the Russians providing free on-the-job amphetamines now? You kind of fight like a grungy addict these days." More like a drugged up superman who couldn't feel pain, Mallory thought.

"You noticed? I'm touched. You'd be amazed what kinds of strange genetic engineering you can get in a little over-the-counter pill. Enhanced physical abilities, of course." Alec idly picked up the nearest weapon, a thick hardcover of Swann's Way. He snapped back and hit so quickly it was almost inhuman.

Not good. But Alec was just cocky. He didn't have any real motivation here besides the personal amusement of hurting people who once trusted him. Mallory had the strongest motivator on Earth.

"It's more than that though," Alec continued. "It's the mental abilities— the bits that make your brain a better computer. Improved memory, faster learning, better deductive reasoning. It's all the rage Mallory."

They crashed into each other with a series of hard punches. They had moved outside of the bedroom and were in the hall, next to the stairs. Alec practically threw Mallory bodily against the wall.

"It's almost sad. I mean, what fun is a war when one side is so pathetic?"

Alec stumbled and tripped on the top step, sending him tumbling down the stairs. Eve emerged from behind. She was bleeding and exhausted but on her feet. She flicked her eyes towards the bathroom and Mallory could follow her thoughts.

Alec was getting to his feet at the foot of the stairs.

Mallory leapt into the bathroom and had the mirror off the wall and smashed in a moment. He grabbed two sharp, elongated pieces and ran back to the stairs, handing one to Eve.

Alec still had a gun, but he wouldn't use it. He wasn't efficient enough. He wouldn't enjoy the fight unless Mallory and Eve had some chance.

He stared up at them and vanished around the corner.

Mallory followed him down. Eve would take her time. Alec stood in the kitchen, having drawn a serrated steak knife from a drawer. "How quaint. I'm game if you are." His grin was feral.

Mallory refused to even consider the possibility that he would lose. It was thinkable.

The fires from the grenades concerned him almost as much as Alec. The cabin was burning — had been burning for nearly fifteen minutes and refused to be ignored. Eve was upstairs and hurt. His son was in a secret compartment below his feet, with only one way in and out, that could become obstructed. Or deprived of oxygen. Mallory realized he was getting dizzy.

He heard a huge clash of glass from his office. Another window taken out. Before he could process the implications and guess at friend or foe, a figure in black shot out of the room and pushed Mallory to the floor.

The man had sandy hair with touches of grey, and cold blue eyes. "Stay down, Mr. Mallory. I'm here to help."

One of the double ohs then. Oh, thank God.

* * *

MI6 had an ongoing weekly guard duty for three long-term safe houses, all in the same nook of Scotland. Ideally each family would have dedicated, round-the-clock team of agents, but times were tough. The families out here assumed some risk in exchange for a normal life.

And honestly it was a dull assignment for anyone. Bond had grumbled when assigned to work not one, but two weeks.

He had arrived four days ago.

He had gotten the distress call fourteen minutes ago.

Two minutes ago he had arrived on scene, using Q-Branch infrared to see Mallory, Eve and the boy, and one uninvited visitor. It could be any of the Russians of course. It wouldn't matter who took Mallory out, as long it was done. Even though Mallory was no longer the Intelligence chairman since going into hiding, his death would have a symbolic sacrifice.

It could be some nameless, mystery assassin. But it wouldn't be. There was no way Alec would let anyone else finish off an MI6 protectee.

Bond entered through the back window, not bothering with subtlety. Half the cabin was already on fire. It was chaos. Alec had fun with chaos—too much fun. Bond could distract him.

He came out shooting with one hand, pushing Mallory down with the other. It wasn't difficult. Mallory had been through a rough couple of minutes and his body seemed ready for the excuse to get off his feet.

Alec dropped low, disappearing behind the kitchen countertops. He popped off a few blind shots from a revolver and Bond and Mallory took cover behind what little they could. A sofa and some end tables weren't going to protect them for long.

Nothing in this fight was going to last for long. He sent Mallory upstairs to get his wife, laying down cover fire.

"Welcome James," Alec yelled. "The plot thickens, old friend."

James knew better than to approach recklessly. They were getting better intel on the Russian's genetic engineering program by the day. It was harrowing to think their enemy had such advantages over them. But Alec had his weaknesses too.

"They invented a pill to fix that hideous face of yours Alec?" Bond asked. He could imagine his scowl. "It would be one thing if you had _always_ been so gruesome, so scarred, but to have to remember what it was like to be handsome, desirable…I think I'd just rather kill myself than live with that mug."

The roof above them collapsed, sending piles of debris and wood beams to the floor. A burst of gas-fueled flames engulfed a good part of the kitchen. Enough to kill, if Alec had gotten a full blast. But he could have been spared by the center island too. The flames leapt to the curtains, and up to the ceiling.

Revenge could wait, James thought. He had to get the kid out of there. Mallory had Eve the rest of the way down the stairs and James pushed over the sofa and opened the barely visible hatch beneath. He grabbed the frightened little boy within and pulled him up. Mallory took him and Bond spun back around to the kitchen. It was hot. Too hot. Too smoky. The books burned. The wood burned. The rugs burned. Everything burned. James couldn't even see to the countertops anymore, unsure whether Alec was trapped behind them or not.

They all escaped through the front window. Bond gave his other sidearm to Mallory—his briefing indicated the man would be able handle it—and they each swept over the horizon, looking for danger.

"Where is he?" Eve said. Her voice was hoarse.

"I don't know. He could have died instantly when the kitchen went. He could have gone out the back and headed for the woods." He took a few steps, intending to circle around the back of the house, when Mallory grabbed his arm.

"It doesn't matter," he said. "We need you here." It wasn't the order of a superior. It was a borderline plea from a man desperate to keep his family safe, and Bond didn't even think about arguing.

He and that traitorous, scarred bastard would finish this, but another night. If he lived.

"What's your name double oh?" Mallory asked.

"Bond. James Bond."

* * *

Tanner notified her as soon as Bond and the Mallorys reached London, again when they were a kilometer away, then again when they were in the building.

They hadn't suffered a safe house breach of this magnitude in nearly four years. Security forces treated the assignment as a Scottish vacation.

Of course it would all go to hell when 007 was on duty. She would never admit it, but she was secretly grateful to whatever deity threw them a bone that night. Grateful that it was 007 and not someone less qualified.

Bond knocked, of course, and she bade him enter.

"007."

"Ma'am."

She had gotten Tanner's reports of course, but she wanted to hear the whole thing from him, from the beginning. She asked pointed, hard questions along the way. About how their security could have been compromised. About how close they had all come to burning to death and Bond's response time on scene. About his inability to determine Alec Trevelyan's status.

He had to be pissed beyond measure. But he didn't let it show, not in front of her.

"You're to stay with the Mallorys", she said. "You can use 006 as a backup, but you don't leave their sides until they can be successfully resettled."

He nodded. There was no one who would be more passionate about protecting them.

"007, it is highly likely that Trevelyan will strike at both of you again. Mallory risked life and limb to expose Trevelyan's treachery—" she hesitated, just a second. The latter had killed over two hundred people before escaping Britain and disappearing, back to his Russian puppet masters. "And we both know how Alec feels about you. Even before we knew what he was, he was always jealous of you."

"We can use that, ma'am," Bond said. He somehow looked even and cool, despite literally coming from a sweaty, disgusting fire and driving for ten hours straight. "His emotions, his impulsiveness, his insecurities about his facial scars. We can use all of it."

"We can," she agreed. "But only if you are not undone by the same weaknesses that once made you friends, of sorts. You're alike, you and Trevelyan. Opposite sides of a coin, I suppose."

"Are you asking if I can remain objective?"

"It seems inevitable that in the event of some dramatic confrontation, that you will have a choice to make. When it comes, will you choose to protect the Mallorys, of will you choose to get revenge?"

Bond's eyes burned, awash with memories and rage and pain. "The Mallorys, of course, ma'am."

"Why?"

"Because I serve at the pleasure of Her Majesty's Government."

"Try again."

The hard lines in Bond's face softened almost imperceptibility. "Because it's what he would have wanted."

* * *

The Mallorys were temporarily settled in simple living quarters, deep in the bowls of British Intelligence. And not the extended compound—the labyrinth of interconnected buildings that stretched nearly three blocks and employed more than 50,000 people. The Mallorys were in the heart of the old MI6 building, back from when it was just a spy agency, and no one was worried about the Cold War, Part 2.

That was what Bond called it, in his head.  Some called it WWIII, but he wasn't sure anyone had formally declared a proper war.  War had rules. Ethics. No matter what people called it, it wasn't good. A few good men with scraps of common sense on both sides were all that stood between humanity and nuclear winter.

Some days, Bond was glad Q never lived to see it get this far. Whole neighborhoods destroyed and bombed. A century of peace destroyed. Seeing James with visible gray hair. It was all terrifically depressing.

He checked in on the Mallorys, who were doing as well as expected. The small boy with brown eyes hid, at first. Then after a few minutes came out into the main living area, and watched silently as Mallory and his wife Eve discussed what they would do next.

England still needed them, James thought privately. But he couldn't blame a man for wanting to protect his family. And then as Bond stood up to depart, the child—Daniel—had run up to Bond and gave him a hug. Bond was so surprised it could have triggered a cardiac event. He held out his arms, not certain what to do with them, looking to Mallory and Eve for guidance.

She shook her head, amused. "For God's sake, Mr. Bond." Bond relented and patted the boy on the back twice. He disengaged and left the family to themselves.

When the conflict first started, Q developed a terrible obsession with adopting cats that had lost their owners. Bond had expected Mothra to eat them all, but she had been content to simply be the Cat in Charge. By the end, Q's flat was home to no less than eleven felines. It was absurd.

How dare Q leave him with eleven cats to take care of? The gall of it!

He was so full of self-righteous indignation, that he managed to blink away the few tears that perched on his eyes, ready to fall.

Bond knew all of their names, of course. He had moved in to continue caring for them—but only after Q had died, and that was its own ball of regret. He had never even told Q he loved him. Had Q known?

His phone vibrated. Hmmm. Mycroft Holmes was calling an impromptu meeting of key MI6 personnel, including the double ohs. It wouldn't be good.  It never was, anymore.

* * *

"007." John Watson waved and gestured to an empty seat next to him.

"002."

James was looking ragged today, John thought. Not that that was anything new. "Welcome back, mate. London missed you."

"Mm."

John didn't let that deter him. James Bond was not just another stalwart fellow double oh agent. He was family, and John would never let him forget it. Ever.

There were more than a hundred people crammed into the dark room. The pale light of an old yellow lamp illuminated the dust and smoke in the air. M was near the front, her hair white and her eyes sharp. Mycroft took the stage. John and James were well-acquainted with Mycroft, of course, but to most others he was something of a myth. A few shuffled in their seats. A few had the audacity to whisper in surprise.

John hoped Mycroft would speak to the strange events being reported. It wasn't just London now, it was most major cities in the world. There had even been reports in New York for the first time. Mycroft told them to keep calm—it was as direct an order as he gave.

Military intelligence was now certain the events were not limited to England and her allies. Russia and its allies were equally affected. Next, he confirmed what everyone had suspected for some time: that the Russians were using highly dangerous and advanced genetic engineering to give their agents physical and mental advantages.

John felt a flare of pain in his leg. Six months ago he had shot a Russian agent—shot him seven times. He should have stayed down. But he didn't, and now John would probably never walk properly again. Genetically mutated bastards, they were.

Mycroft let the whispers from that bit of news die out.

When there was silence, he continued. "We should have shared what we knew about the genetic engineering sooner. We didn't want to fuel unfounded rumors at the time," he cast a glance at John, "but that put some of you at a disadvantage in the field. So this time, we are choosing to share unconfirmed intelligence, trusting that everyone in this room uses it to further their vigilance and not the gossip mill."

Mycroft was always serious in front of a crowd, but John had never seen him this serious.

"We have reason to believe that Russians are now capable of highly effective techniques in disguise. Accomplished through a series of surgeries, it could be possible a Russian agent to acquire the face and voice of a British citizen, or even an MI6 agent."

Murmurs and grumbles surged through the crowd.

"Silence! Thank you. I don't have to tell you that England is on the brink. We cannot afford to lose trust in one another, and or have everyone and their cousin accusing each other of being Russian doppelgangers." He appeared to barely avoid an eye roll. "And yet, it is our duty to inform you that such a thing might no longer be impossible."

Mycroft went into the details about what they knew and how. A few images were shared—bloody images from the surgeries and presumed early failures. A few questions were asked and answered. No, they did not know if the technology included the ability to forge a successful retinal scan. No, they did not have any preliminary suspects in custody or potential targets. They didn't know much at all.

All they knew was that anyone in London—literally anyone—might be a Russian spy with a friendly face. Trust no one. Jesus, as if the working conditions weren’t tense enough already.

Mycroft departed and the florescent lights flickered to life. People looked at each other warily.

John looked at James, who was as cold and expressionless as ever. "Lunch, 007?"

James sighed. "Of course, 002."

* * *

John invited James back to his flat to lunch. It wasn't a real flat of course, just a large windowless room inside MI6 with a bed, a sofa, a converted kitchen and a small bath. James recalled his old flat in London: beautiful, expensive, but just as sparsely decorated as John's. It had never been home. Not the way Q's flat had been, when he was alive. Or even the way Q's flat was now, with James and the cats.

James thanked John for looking after them, while he was away.

John nodded seriously. Somehow caring for Q's cats had become the highest and most trusted favor James Bond could ask of someone. John appeared to have figured that out.

They shared soup, and fresh bread—James wasn't sure how he had scored that—and their assignments. John was surprised but pleased to know James was sticking around London. James shrugged noncommittally. Besides the cats, he didn't care much for London anymore—too many memories. It was easier to be in the field.

"We'll have a proper welcome home dinner this weekend," John declared. "I'll round up Sherlock and Myc and Greg."

James asked after Greg. He hadn't seen the former DI in almost a year.

"Greg wants to help, however he can. And Mycroft practically throws a fit anytime Greg wants to leave the compound. Greg's old flat was bombed out two weeks ago. Five dead." He was somber but not that subdued. Discussing another wave of bombings was as regular as weather patterns, these days.

James sipped his soup. "Like you don't panic every time Sherlock sneaks off?"

John winced. "Guilty. It's a dangerous world." He didn't have to add the rest.

After what had happened to Q, they wouldn't survive another loss. Sherlock, Mycroft, Greg Lestrade, John Watson. James would give his life to make sure none of them experienced another loss.

John set his cup down, rattling the thin table. "I know what you're thinking, James."

"Show-off." James sounded petulant to his own ears.

"You are still every bit part of this family. More so," he added. "And if you think his death made your life expendable you are dead wrong." He picked up his tea again. "Mycroft only allowed you on the Mallory rotation because no one thought anything would _actually_ happen."

James scowled. He wondered why so many of his recent assignments had turned out so dull. Half the time he had to go hunting for the enemy when they wouldn't come to him. "Mycroft doesn't need to protect me."

"It's not like you're doing art and crafts. They're still missions; they're just not the suicide missions you'd sign up for."

They ate in silence. James let himself enjoy what tasted like real butter. Who was raising cows in London these days?

"I'm glad you're home, 007. We're all glad."

James sighed. John was relentless. For the first time in months, James' lips curved upward in a smile. "Glad to see you safe and sound 002."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next chapter:   
> Back to Track A!  
> Loki explains!  
> A villain is revealed!  
> Our MI6 heroes are being followed by curious Kingsman!  
> Q returns to his universe, but he's not going alone!


	5. Back to Track A (again)

Track A

Their guests having departed, James and Shaun got ready for bed.

James had not second-guessed or backtracked on his silent dinner resolution. If anything he was consumed with the details. How should the rings be designed? What jeweler should he visit? Same-sex marriage was perfectly legal but James had a feeling there was a lot of murky areas and sand traps to avoid.

What Shaun even like being proposed to? Would he want James to present him with a ring, or would it seem too forward? James knew everything meaningful about Shaun that he'd needed to know until now—down to his all-time favorite operating system (Gentoo) and his secret guilty pleasure movie (My Fair Lady). But this was different. It hadn't exactly come up in the course of regular conversation.

He kept thinking about it as he went about his evening routine. He was confident that Shaun would say yes. That was the important part. James was ready to be married—God, the psychologists for the double oh programme would faint if they could hear him now—he just didn't want to cock it up. He wanted it to be perfect, for Shaun.

"You're distracted," Shaun said.

"Life," James said. "Saving the world, playing cards with Mycroft, having your evil twin in the guest bedroom. It's all hard."

"We shouldn't call him that," Shaun scolded.

Of course. It was obvious that Q was not only _not_ evil, but actually seemed shier than Shaun. Maybe it was the circumstances. Being thrown into an alternate reality was bound to shake someone's nerves, and on top of it a reality where your career was destroyed. Bound to make anyone uncomfortable.

"I feel sorry for him," Shaun said.

James spit a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink quite ungracefully. "Sorry for him?" with the obvious tone of _are you mad_?

"He's alone." Shaun rubbed a light overnight crème into his face.

James didn't follow at all. Q seemed to recognize him, Alec, Tanner, M, even Gareth Mallory and that Kingsman—Kingswoman?—Moneypenny.

They made their way to the bed and Shaun explained the details he and Sherlock had gotten out of him. James's stomach hollowed out. They were 007 and Q, in this other universe, but they _weren't together_? That's why Q had thrown a fit in the car, when he had seen Shaun and James being themselves, being affectionate?

Shaun fidgeted with his hands. "It's like we could either be together, or have our dream jobs, but not both. Sick, isn't it?" His voice had a false easiness to it.

It was. James wrapped his hands around Shaun's, stilling them. He stared right at Shaun, so there would be no mistaking his words. "This is better. I'd rather have you."

Shaun scooched over to James and rested his head on his chest. "I know you miss it." His voice was practically a whisper. "It's okay to admit it."

He did. He wasn't prone to long bouts of self-pitying or whining. But once in a blue moon, sadness and regret and what-ifs could overwhelm him, alone and in the dark, and before long an empty bottle would clang as it hit the bottom of the recycling bin. He made sure Shaun was never around then, but he didn't try to make it a secret either.

"I'd rather have you," he repeated. If he was working as a bartender or a university lecturer or a manager of McDonald's, he could deal with it. As long has he had Shaun.

He turned off the light. Maybe he did feel a little sorry for Q, after all. The lights from London still shone through the room, enough to see the shadow of Shaun's face and the curves of his body.

Shaun arched his neck and met his lips in a kiss. James ran his hands over Shaun's back and tugged him closer. He forgot about everything else, forgot about the world itself, as his brain fogged into lust and his thoughts became as single-minded as _mine, beautiful Shaun, sexy Shaun, want him, need him, must protect him, mine…_

* * *

Alec didn't get home until almost two AM. James and Shaun had been able to shove off with the rest of the nine to fivers, mostly because they ran out before Monaghan could stop them. But Alec, R and the rest of the top MI6 personnel had stayed. Trying to figure out who their intruder had been this morning—because Loki, brother of Thor?—and what he intended to do when he returned.

It was obvious he was familiar with them all, even James and Shaun, but how. No one had copped to seeing him before, except as some actor named Tom Hiddleston.

R had googled Norse legends until his fingers cramped. That was apparently _a thing_ in Q-Branch, R assured him, nothing to worry about. Like when a double oh broke a rib.

But Google had not been particularly helpful when queried on how to kill a God, nor contain it or even just repel it away like a clingy girlfriend.

They had nothing, and it frustrated Alec to no end that the best solution was probably padding around James' and Shaun's flat like a dinner guest. Q seemed quite harmless in Medical; he barely had the strength to lift his own head. And Shaun had later filled Alec in on what he had learned in the car, namely that Q was Shaun from other universe or timeline, and was here to help them, save them. But Alec wanted to be in the solution, not toiling away with those not in the know.

Alec's flat was dark and barren. It was an official MI6 flat, reserved for high-risk, high-value employees. The building had impeccable security, and all the right luxuries to boot. But the truth is most of the employees deserving of such expensive, secured flats were rarely around to enjoy them. Alec had a leather sofa and an arm chair and a big-ass TV. He didn't even really need the sofa. Wasn't like he did a lot of entertaining here. Unlike James in his heyday, he never took his romantic conquests home, even for a night. Not worth the risk.

He was prepared to go straight to bed and enjoy his three hours of sleep. He rubbed his eyes.

A shadow in the corner of his flat moved, and Alec had his gun drawn before he was conscious of it. The shadow moved across the white wall to his left, its shape unlike anything Alec had ever seen.

He swallowed and barely restrained his trigger finger. The Fight part of "fight of flight" was so dominant he would shoot a shadow on the wall if it came to it.

There was no physical form or substance that could correspond to the shadow.

He jolted as a second dark swirl appeared on the wall to his right. These shadows were things—monsters he thought instinctively—and there were two of them. They moved quickly, in a restless sort of way, like chained dogs. They never got too close to him. They were just shadows with no physical form, but Alec was frightened.

The room had gotten quite a bit warmer, and Alec wiped sweat from his brow.

"Welcome home, Alec," the voice was low and deep.

Alec fired straight ahead, into a dark corner of the room where a shape resembling a man had appeared. He didn't wait for identification—didn't care. He fired off three shots.

There was silence in the flat. Alec's gun was still trained dead ahead, and he still saw the shadow monsters in his periphery.

"That wasn't very nice."

The figure stepped forward.

Alec's pupils dilated, trying to absorb the incredible image in front of him. It was male, but not a man. He skin was a smoky red, tinged with black, like he had just recently stepped out of a burning building. The whites of his eyes and teeth were the only things normal about him, but even they looked…evil. He was dressed all in red, dark arterial red that was so powerful it was like it belonged in some other world.

Alec was face to face with the devil. He fired again, he shot and shot until his gun clinked with the awful sound of an empty clip.

The devil smiled at him. He swirled a glass in his hand—Alec hadn't seen it until now. He had helped himself to some brandy by the looks of it.

"Are you quite done, Alec?"

"The walls are thick but not that thick. Backup will be here, and soon," he tried to project confidence. A double oh was trained to do that. To command the attention of a room, when they so desired, and slip into obscurity at the drop of a hat.

A phone rang, simple and ordinary.

"What do you think I'll do to them, when they come? Wouldn't you rather limit the casualty count of your work colleagues?"

Alec didn't blanch, but he did reconsider. This was a supernatural creature, not unlike Loki earlier today, and appeared impervious to bullets. Alec went to pick up the phone. If he was in distress, he had only to utter, "Hey Max, how's it going?" He held the phone to his face. "Sorry for the noise, Max. Nothing to worry about."

It would be suspicious no doubt. Backup might still break down the door for the hell of it. But it might work. It might save their lives.

"Don't look so concerned," the red man waved his drink hand loosely, sending some brown liquid splashing about the room. "Alec, my name is Mephisto. And I want to be your friend."

"Friend?"

"Yes." He gestured. "Have a seat old boy. Join me for a drink."

Alec looked wearily at the shadows crawling on his wall. They had no form, but he could hear faint hissing and scratching, like claws threatening to take his head off.

"They're called Daevas," Mephisto explained. "A type of Zoroastrian demon. Wonderful little things. Sinister by day, horrific by night. They could slash you to death in moments, if given the impetus."

"Perhaps I have some dog biscuits around here somewhere," Alec said. "Don't want them to get hungry. Would you care for one?"

"Too kind," Mephisto smiled, showing all his white teeth. "But I'm not here to _ask_ for anything Alec." His tone was light and pleasant, like they were discussing the weather on a sunny day. "I'm here to offer you something."

"I've already got HBO."

Any spy could be a brute force killing machine. MI6 seemed to like their double ohs with a dash of wit. When a few of them managed to get around to dinner or a pub together, it was a downright riot.

"You poor man," Mephisto said, shaking his head. "There are so many universes out there—far more than the nine realms the Asguardians travel. And the possibilities are so wondrous. Your little friends, James and Shaun, professionally they've been everything from competing skydivers to restaurateur partners. James has been a Formula One driver, Shaun his chief technician. Shaun has been a medieval prince, James his loyal bodyguard. They've fought zombies, survived plagues, and endured more achingly romantic rom-com setups than you could fathom."

Mephisto laughed. "Not you, though."

"Oh?" Alec was unfazed, expressionless.

"You, Alec Trevelyan, are completely unique in this one single universe. A strange outlier, even an aberration."

Alec didn't humor him with a response.

"Did you know that in _every_ single other universe, you are one of two things: dead, or a traitor, or both." He let the news sink in.

Alec swallowed again, but kept his face blank.

"That's right, Alec. You either get Door A, in which you're the sidekick, the redshirt who gets a tragic death that will give emotional fuel to the hero—that's Bond—or you get door B, where you accept what you know in your heart of hearts: that MI6 doesn't care about you. You're just another nameless, faceless double oh to them. Not special, not like James. Why shouldn't you go into business for yourself, or hook up with some people who appreciate you for you? The Russians just seem to adore you…" Mephisto laughed.

"But this you, 'Alec the good guy,' 'Alec the star?' It's a temporary glitch, wholly unique in the totality of the universe. And the Universe will fix itself. Like tossing a cat off a rooftop—even if some strange fluke can happen mid-air, it's always going to land on its feet. The rubber band can stretch, but it always snaps back in the end. It's its natural state."

Mephisto took a sip. "And your natural state? You can either be the inevitable tragic loss in some great battle—the schmuck who will be long-forgotten about in what—two years, five years? Maybe James and Shaun name a kid after you someday. That's about as good as you're going to get. _Or,_ you can embrace that little inner voice you've been silencing for so long. The voice that tells you that you don't deserve _any_ of that. You can do better."

Mephisto leaned forward. His red face made Alec want to leap back in fear and disgust. "I can help you do better, if you'd accept my help." He waited.

His response was on the tip of his tongue. _I don't believe you_. That's all he had to say. What he should say. And yet, there was no one around to posture in front of. And this creature in front of him didn't seem like the type to suffer defensive lies.

Q had said it, in medical earlier. He had said Alec was dead. That was his fate in Q's universe. It wasn't so bad, he had told himself that afternoon. If he was that terrified to die, if outlasting death as long possible was his end goal, he would be a house husband in the suburbs, firing up the barbecue every weekend with a pretty wife.

"There are worse fates than death. Like being a traitor." He glared, not bothering to stay expressionless any longer. "Whatever you're offering, I don't want it."

"But you do. I've come to you before Alec, over and over and over again. I've made you the same offer, and most of the time you accept. But not all," he held up his hand defensively. "I take those failures personally; I don't blame you. But if I do say so myself, I give a pretty good soft sell. I don't want to threaten you or force you to kill Bond or Q or M."

Alec tensed, his muscles like steel wires waiting to snap.

"I want you to realize why _you_ already want to do those things."

"I don't," he said quickly.

"I know you think you can play the martyr. And maybe you can. But why _should_ you? You have options, now."

"Spying for the enemy isn't my idea of being my own hero." He was sure about that. He may not have the fanatical love of England that the other double ohs had—a fact he had carefully obscured over the years—but neither did have a fondness for Moscow or Beijing.

Mephisto shrugged. "Okay, fine. But tell me, why does James always get to be the hero? It seems so unfair, to me. I mean, somehow, someway, in this little universe you're still breathing, and you are 007 to boot. If you were ever going to get a shot at be the star, this is it. But if you do nothing, you know how it's going to end." He counted on his fingers. "James and Shaun are back in the spotlight, they are re-promoted, they fight the big fight because they're the big damn romantic couple, and you catch a bullet for dramatic impact."

Alec's blood was boiling. He was effectively trapped in his own living room by a man who looked like Satan, and shadow creatures, and he was saying things that Alec did _not_ want to hear, and it was physically just too damned hot in here.

"You can be the special one, Alec," Mephisto said. "I can make it happen. All you have to do is let me help you."

It was tempting, Alec thought bitterly. It was ironic and cliché, but he was tempted. When your whole life you'd always had the feeling that you were born to play second fiddle, the chance to at first position triggered a Pavlovian response.

And if this red devil was to be believed, many other times Alec had given into temptation.

But—what was it he said?—that Alec _here_ was an outlier, an aberration. He could be better than the other versions of himself he thought.

"I already am special, here. I don't need your help." He stood. "We're done here."

Mephisto too, rose. "Until later, my inevitable friend."

The hot air in the room was sucked out as if in a vacuum and Alec steadied himself on the wall to keep from falling. A moment later the flat was chilly, icy even. And he was alone.

* * *

Q woke up still feeling tired. He was pretty sure he had been stress-sleeping all night.

He cleaned himself up as best he could in the private bath. A set of fresh clothes had appeared in the room sometime since last night, but he was reticent to wear them. They weren't his clothes. They were Shaun-from-IT's clothes. He already felt like an imposter. Ultimately he decided to stop being a baby about it and accept them.

He softly walked into the main living area, wearing snug jeans, thick socks and a white cashmere sweater.

It had snowed overnight. Like Christmas, all over again. The morning sunlight reflected off the snow and bounced light all throughout the flat. There were a lot of large windows, Shaun thought, as he prepared a cup of tea. Didn't Bond worry about snipers? Shouldn't he be more…PTSD about the whole thing?

"Good morning."

Q spun around sharply. Bond—James that is—was there, a safe distance away. Sharply dressed. Standing still.

Q huffed. "I'm not a frightened deer—you have permission to approach."

James entered the kitchen without further comment, going through the motions of preparing his own breakfast. "Shaun's the in the shower; he'll be out shortly."

"Hmm," Q said absently. "I have some homework for him, as it were. I was up half the night thinking of what we're going to do next, about Loki I mean." It seemed safest to settle on non-risqué topics, like saving the world. And _not_ on the noises he had heard coming from the bedroom last night. He sat down at the table with a bowl of cereal. James joined him.

It was so achingly domestic that Q suddenly wanted to scream.

"How does it even work?" he said, too loudly.

James regarded him with curiosity. "Breakfast?"

Q threw up his hands. "Your…thing…with Shaun. How could it possibly work? I mean, it just makes no sense." His tone practically dared James to argue with him.

James looked thoughtful. "Why wouldn't it?"

"You want something—like a list?"

"Sure, like a list."

"Because you're a notorious womanizer," Q said. "Because your idea of a long-term relationship is giving your date a chance to order dessert." Q had stolen that line from Sabrina, another favorite movie Eggsy’s. "Because you use dry wit the way I use sarcasm—to keep people away. Because you'll always pick the job. Because I'll always pick the job. Because the person I confide in is an Orange Tabby. Because neither of us should know how to do _any_ of this. Because I'm the one with the crush and you're the one who uses that. Because you're you." Q gestured in James's general direction. "And suave and debonair or whatever and I'm just…not." He ran his hand through his hair. "I just don't know how it even works."

He took a bite of cereal quite forcefully.

James looked at him, solemn. "Where you're from, where you're Q and I'm 007, _you're_ the one with a crush?"

"How else could it be?"

James gave up on the pretense of breakfast. He seemed to struggle for words. "After Skyfall, even after all the horribleness that had taken place, I wanted to see him. Just hang out, around him. I was just intrigued at first. And then I wanted to keep seeing him, and I wanted more of him. Even after we had started sleeping together, I…I didn't have the language to express it, but I was completely besotted with you."

It sounded so much like a dream, a fantasy, that Q forced himself to remember where he was. This was _not_ his Bond, was _not_ his Bond, he had no right to feel these things…

"Every time I got his attention at work, I felt victorious. At home, if I got him to tear his eyes away from his laptop to watch me to push-ups, it was like a high. And whenever he paid attention to anyone else, I was so damned grouchy. I wanted to buy him trinkets and whisper in his ear and hear him talk about encryption for hours on end just to hear his voice." He trailed off.

"I was very much the one with the crush, like some teenager in love for the first time." He frowned. "It's so hard for me to believe that there's some universe out there where I'm not—where some other James Bond isn't madly in love with you."

Q's head banged against the table a few times. "Fuck my life," he muttered. "You're so, unguarded. It's almost eerie. It's almost like Vesper Lynd didn't mind-fuck you at all." He snapped his mouth shut and prepared to cower in his chair. Rule #1 with Bond, in any universe, had to be, never mention…

"What kind of name is Vesper Lynd?"

Q shook his head. Figures. "Nevermind," he said. "Just someone to remember to avoid, now and forever, got it?"

"Got it."

* * *

James stood at the ready. "No readings here."

Ditto from Shaun.

Ditto from Alec.

Ditto from Tanner.

Ditto from Q.

They were spread out at different parts of London, per Shaun and Q's instructions. James followed the broad points of their logic—that in Q's universe they had been able to draw Loki to them, but it wouldn't work here. Not without the tech needed to create such suitable conditions, and without someone named Tony Stark, well, it was pointless. Shaun had snuck in some time on Q-Branch servers to identify the primary locations in this universe that had multiple 'tears' in roughly the same place. There were still more than two dozen locations, so within that list they had picked the ones with the strongest likelihood of success.

Q had told them they were lucky; in his universe there would have been hundreds of possible locations—a few dozen in this universe was actually manageable.

It was that observation—that the strange events here were real, but not as bad as in the Other universe—that got them all to thinking.

What if Loki was avoiding this universe, for the most part, or as much as he possible could? The way he avoided America or anything too remote. What if it was on purpose?

After dozens of conversations beginning with "What if?"—James' least favorite phrase when trying to save the world—they had something of a plan. Now they just needed Loki.

It was their third such night, waiting for Loki to materialize. James didn't like the idea of them being split up, but Shaun and Q insisted that they were running out of time.

They had a point, too.

More than two hundred people had reported seeing a Nazi flag on display from Buckingham Palace. It had even been on display long enough for people to get a few pictures, before it vanished. The palace had no comment on the "disturbing prank."

A familiar voice cackled on the radio. "Alec here. I don't like this."

"What's wrong?" James said.

"I've got the telly on in the background. London's spiraling out of control. There are more than fifteen locations we could be watching, with ten times the manpower. We should call for backup."

"Negative," James said. "M will never believe us, and who knows what she'll do to Q."

"This is the fate of the world," Alec said, his tone colder. "This should be an MI6 operation by now, not a ragtag Scooby-Doo adventure."

James frowned. Alec had been increasingly pissed off the past few days, and he could not figure out why. "More guns and more bodies aren’t going to solve this, Alec. Do you not trust us?"

"Not to put too much of a point on it, but I literally outrank everyone here. I think the question is, why don't you trust me, _for once_?" His voice had risen to a shout.

Shaun interrupted them. "This is it guys. I think I'll have contact in the next two to five minutes."

James scowled. It was Shaun. Of course it was Shaun. And he was more than thirty minutes away from James. James was in the car and in third gear before Shaun had even signed off.

* * *

Shaun gulped. The thousands of books around him suddenly made him a bit claustrophobic. And he was very much alone, despite the radios.

A flash of green light came and went, and there he was. Not-Tom-Hiddleston.

Right in the private archives of the British Library.

Shaun was a few meters away. "Hello again, Loki," Shaun waved, trying to be friendly.

Loki had clearly taken a turn for the worse in the last several days. There were no more pretenses or posturing. He looked exhausted, like he could barely hold himself upright. His hair looked greasy, unwashed.

"Not this asshole of a universe again." He sighed. "The land that magic forgot."

"Miss us?"

"Like a boil in my brain."

Shaun weakly smiled. "Nice alliteration. Listen, can we talk, a bit?"

Loki shook his head. "They're onto me. They're near. See you in another life, puny mortal."

Shaun inhaled, and threw the large, electrified netting he had snared from Q-Branch days before. It covered Loki's whole body in an instant, and lit up in little blue flecks as the shocks started.

Loki looked down at the netting, his face livid. "Is this supposed to stop me?" he growled.

No, but it might keep you still for a few seconds, Shaun thought. He ran forward, right towards Loki. He had a small cardboard box in his right hand and tipped it as he ran in a circle. In just a few seconds, Loki had the netting removed and tossed aside. He reached out, presumably to strangle Shaun.

But his arms to failed to reach their target. He tried again. And was again stopped mid-air, like a brick wall.

Shaun exhaled, and resumed breathing. That was the craziest shit he had ever done. He raised his arms defensively. "Don't get mad—"

Loki fumed, silently.

"But we figured it out too—that magic in this realm must be really, really weak. Weak enough that something simple like a salt circle," he gestured to a ring of white that now surrounded Loki, "might just be enough to make you sit still for a moment."

A burst of laughter erupted from some distant part of the library. Right, Shaun reminded himself, public place. Civilians as near as the next floor. Also, shame on them for such noise in a library!

Shaun grabbed a chair from one of the study tables. He didn't want to risk breaking the salt ring, but gently tossed the chair towards Loki. "Would you like to sit down and take a rest?"

Loki, surprisingly, did just that. He sagged into the chair a bit and his head fell back. "You have no idea what you've done."

"Whatever you're running from," Shaun said. "We'll help you. We'll fight them. We can defeat their magic in the same way if we have to…But this has to end. The universes are bleeding together, coming undone."

"You think I don't know that?" Loki said, outraged. "You don't even have the language to describe what is happening to you."

Shaun tapped his toes. "Then give me the words. Tell me what this has all been about."

* * *

He was done for, Loki thought. Undone, by an ant. By a tiny, childlike, skinny little ant.

Perhaps it was for the best that this humiliation remain private. It's not like this little Shaun Holmes could go tell it on the Mountaintops of Asgard.

Maybe Loki could simply die here, in this pathetic wisp of a realm, and his true fate would remain a mystery, told as a frightening children's story for years to come. _The Asguardian prince who was really a Frost Giant in disguise, who was later Odin in disguise, who later vanished without a trace, waiting to take his revenge on little children who ate too many sweets_ , or some such nonsense.

Loki barely even bothered to concentrate on what the creature in front of him was saying. "Tell me," was the last thing he heard.

Well, he thought. He had been warping through realms—realms that shouldn't even exist—by himself, nonstop without sustenance or rest for weeks. He had aged what felt like a thousand years since then. And the only people he had to talk to were these little mortals, who were normally so fun to threaten. Especially the ones who seemed to think he was the doppelganger of a mortal actor.

He sighed. Maybe it wasn't so bad to have a rest.

When had that chair appeared?

He took a seat.

It occurred to him that no one in this universe, this magical dampening field, had ever seen Loki. Loki and Thor had only visited the prime universe of the Midgardian realm. All these other universes, these echoes…they didn't even know enough of him to fear him, really.

Well of course they were afraid now; he had threatened them.

But they didn't have real cause to hate him, yet.

He chewed the inside of his cheek.

"Have you even heard of the Tesseract?—Wait, don't answer, of course not. Ugh…" He rolled his eyes. "Do you know what will happen when they realize I've stopped moving? They'll come here." He tried to convey the appropriate dread.

The little genius waited patiently.

Loki snarled. "Mephisto? An evil, demonic Hell-Lord. Red skin, red cape, tail and all. Comes from a realm we don't officially acknowledge—one of fiery pits of smoke and lava. You should hope to just die of shock when he appears in front of you."

The little genius smiled thinly. "Satan? You can do better than that."

"No, _Mephisto_. Everyone else thinks they have to worry about the Mad Titan—the one who's collecting Infinity Gems for some terrible purpose. But look what Mephisto did. He went out and _stole_ the blue one—space, _and_ the red one—reality, _and_ the purple one—power. And with those three, he's done the impossible. There should only be nine realms, but Mephisto has found them all. All these echoes of the main realms, that no one even knew existed. And he's drawing his talons across them, playing with his new toy. And you thought this was all just me, just an accident." He said the last word with loathing.

"You're not causing the tears; you're…piggybacking off them."

Loki didn't dignify the strange mortal word with a response. Their language threw him more often than he would ever admit.

They were no longer alone. The boyfriend appeared out of nowhere, breathing heavily. He glared at Loki which was a bit rude—Loki had only met the boyfriend in the prime universe when he had been spat on.

"—And if Mephisto has just been toying with us so far, then what's this all about? What does he want with his colored gems?"

This library was quite large; Loki could tell. He had loved books, growing up, a very un-Asgardian interest. Father liked his trinkets in his museum. Thor liked his weapons. His mother, her home and hearth. But he liked books. "Perhaps this is an acceptable place as any to be slashed to death," he murmured. Mephisto would not do it himself. The Daevas needed to feed off life force or they would get cranky.

"Tell us what we want to know, or we're leaving you to die," the blond boyfriend said.

If Loki had more energy, he would have liked to reduce the smug mortal down to his basal fears. Too bad he hadn't the energy.

"James, I think he's really scared."

"All the better reason to get the hell out of here and pull the fire alarm on the way out."

"He's right," Loki said. Sitting down had been his death knell. He felt like the metaphorical sun was a hairsbreadth away from setting for good. "Go, little mortals. Go on." Maybe he could get a moment of rest before the murder started.

"…Thor….his brother."

"What? What did you say mortal?" Loki demanded.

"You can call me Shaun," the thin one said. "This is James. Is there any way your brother Thor could help you?"

"You mean help _you_ ," Loki said. "Isn't that what he always does?"

It didn't even make Loki furious anymore. He was too tired. It made him…sad. "Chooses his brutish warrior friends over me. The humans over me. Taking pity on me later, nothing but pity and regret…He'll try to stop Mephisto, try to save the Earth, and he'll die trying. He's so brave and so stupid."

"So he's the brutish blond one, and you're the bookworm brunette who comes up with the plan?" the mortal, Shaun, barked a laugh. Shaun pushed up his glasses which had fallen askew. "Why am I the only one…for God's sakes, it's us, James."

James didn't find it amusing.

"Are you really willing to let your brother die fighting Mephisto? You hate him that much?"

Loki crossed his arms and growled. "He'd never believe me."

Loki could show up with a signed confession from Mephisto and a deus ex machina magical spear to kill him and Thor still wouldn't believe it.

"We believe you." Shaun glanced at James. "I believe you," he corrected himself.

What a stupid human. So much for a genius among men.

"So if I follow," Shaun said, "Mephisto is going to destroy the Earth, Thor is going to try to save it, but you think he won't succeed because he doesn't know how, but you do, but he'd never believe you?" His brain was churning so loud Loki could practically hear whirling. "But I still don't understand. Why the alternate universes? Why destroy the Earth at all?"

Loki sighed. Must everything be spelled out for these people? "Mephisto collects and tortures souls for eternity, in his little fire pit of a dimension. But they're not that easy to get—especially innocent souls. It involves bargains with mortals and time and magical laws. He stole the blue stone and the red stone and the purple stone from the Mad Titan, but those are just means to an end, and they weren't all that hard to find. The orange stone— the Soul Stone—now _that’s_ hard to find. Since he's opened up the hidden realms, he's looking everywhere for it, in every world."

"And once he finds it—this orange soul gem?"

"Then you find out what happens when billions of people get the souls sucked from their very bodies."

* * *

Shaun felt a chill pass through him.

A red-tailed devil named Mephisto, who had stolen a bunch of magical gems to find _another_ magical gem to collect souls, was going to destroy the universe, and their only hope was Thor, who would never trust Loki to come up with a plan even if Loki could agree?

He bit his lip. He tapped his fingers against his jeans. This was ridiculous.

Loki was ridiculous.

He didn't want to deal with this. He just wanted to go back to decrypting Russian terrorist chatter or watching poor Jen in IT, to see when she figured out that her new boyfriend looked _exactly_ like a Magician. James was right, he thought. They should have just taken Rory (and Jess) and gone on ruddy holiday to Scotland while the world (literally?) went to hell.

He felt James approach, and some of the tension faded away. James massaged small circles into his back. "It's okay. We'll figure it out."

"I love you," Shaun said quietly.

"I love you."

Shaun exhaled. "Thank you," he said to Loki. "For telling us all that. I think I understand. I wish I could explain it in Quantum Physics, but I think I understand."

He paced back and forth, slowly and aimlessly. "For what it's worth, I'm pretty sure I know what you're doing here."

Loki twitched.

"You're looking for the soul gem too, aren't you? You want to find it before Mephisto."

"Maybe I want it for myself," Loki said.

"Maybe," Shaun said. "But I don't think so."

"I'm certainly not trying to save _you_." Loki said the last word with scorn.

"No. Not me." This brother Thor seemed like a sore spot the few times Shaun had said mentioned him by name, and Shaun could guess at some of it. Asgardian brothers may have different stuff to fight about, but it's all the same too.

Mycroft in particular sometimes drove Shaun insane. Maybe it was the age difference, or the inevitable Shakespearian drama of the eldest and youngest children. Or that Mycroft lived for fine things and Shaun was still happy to lounge in sweatpants on the couch with James. But for probably ten years Shaun and Myc had been more like distant cousins than brothers. Sherlock drove himself mad when he realized he was the one who would need to remediate the conflict. He swore he'd rather slit his wrists than play family therapist, but it was exactly what he had done (in his own way). But Shaun loved Mycroft.

Seeing poor Q, who had no brothers at all, reinforced that even more.

James probably wouldn't understand, but Shaun was confident Loki loved his brother, and did not want him to die, and was going through extraordinary lengths to be…well, not a hero per say. But not a villain either. He was just mentally considering the term 'antihero' when his radio beeped.

Right. Shaun had of course, left his radio on the entire time, so Alec, Q and Tanner had heard the whole thing, but had been unable to say anything in response.

Shaun clicked his radio to stop transmitting. "So," he said lightly, "anyone have any bright ideas on finding this orange soul gem before Mephisto? There's no bad idea in brainstorming."

Q responded. "Now that you mention it, I'm pretty sure I know where to find it."

* * *

Q sat on a picnic table, outside in January. The snow seeped through the jeans he had borrowed but he didn't feel it. A bright blaze of moonlight appeared as a cloud moved by.

Q had heard everything from his radio. It scared him, but not in the way it probably scared this Universe's Shaun. Q knew the Avengers, he understood Asgardians were real and that monsters and magic were in the periphery of his senses.

The trouble wasn't believing it, Q thought. The trouble was the immediate obstacles.

How to get to Thor?

How to get home?

How to save Loki? Q's promise to Thor came back to him, and now that he understood Loki's intentions, he felt a revived sense of duty.

Not that there was much he could do about it, being so far away.

Before Shaun had sounded the alarm, Q had been investigating this little park. It was in a bustling neighborhood, but there had still been children and parents about until almost 10:00. It should have been deserted in the winter—it was small and flat and children had nowhere to sled. But it had been as busy as a summer day. And when he had entered it, Q had felt…something.

Two years ago, before the attempted invasion of New York, Q would have called it nonsense. A sensory outlier. A glitch in the Matrix. Now he had learnt to pay better attention to those feelings that had no logical explanation.

When he entered the park, Q felt warm. London was in a cold snap. Snow mushed at his feet and moonlight reflected off ice, and if he really focused, his skin and ears and fingers did indeed feel cold.

It was like his soul had a thermos of hot tea next to it, he decided. Something kept his soul warm and alight, even in the chilly night air.

As he had looked around, to smiling parents and playful children, he felt confident that he was not the only one enjoying the sensation. Something was special about this park. Whatever it was, was probably the reason Loki had briefly passed through here, twice at least already.

As Loki slowly delivered the details of what was happening, Shaun let his eyes meander over the landscape (the children had indeed retired eventually).

He saw a faint orange glow from beneath the snow. He walked over, telling himself it couldn't be true. It couldn't be so easy. But he fell to his knees and started digging through the snow. With his bare hands.

He reached the ground. There was nothing there.

He leaned back and cursed quietly. Bugger.

And yet, that little orange glow was still visible. It was like the pale light emanating from a neon sign on the Las Vegas strip. Q instinctively looked up for the source of it. He was thorough, obviously, but saw nothing.

And then the lightbulb went on in his head. "Got it!"

He clicked his radio, which should register on Shaun's. Shaun stopped broadcasting and Q took over. "I'm pretty sure I know where to find it." They could really do this.

* * *

Moneypenny and Mallory hung back from the neighborhood park. They were one street over, naturally cast in the shadows.

"If this is a typical drop, the other party's running late," she said.

"I don't think anything about this is typical." Mallory had graduated to several full sentences a day, at least to her.

Moneypenny rubbed her hands together. She should have dropped this by now. They had been following these weirdos for days, and they hadn't done any harm. People were allowed to be strange, especially MI6 people. Eggsy said he didn't know him, despite what the MI6 man had claimed.

Moneypenny didn't respond.

Mallory wasn't on comms so he couldn't hear Merlin, but Merlin could obviously hear their conversation from her earpiece alone.

This whole thing was probably a wild goose chase. Kingsman was investigating the London Incidents—including the swastika over Buckingham palace—from every angle, and they were _all_ more likely than these weird people she couldn't put her finger on.

But it was her lead in the investigation, and however unlikely she would go with it a little longer. "I heard you were offered a nice place in Tahiti. A lifelong retirement package, as it were," she said.

He cast a glance at her.

"I'm not complaining that you're here," she said quickly. "I like your company." It was true. He was taciturn and generally unsociable and not exactly handsome. But he clearly had been quite handsome, once. And now that he had gained probably ten pounds and his face was less gaunt, she thought he looked quite striking.

"England is in danger," he said finally. "I didn't spend all those years in hell to come back and abandon her when she needs me the most."

Eve melted a bit. Whether consciously or no, he thought the grander meaning of his rescue hadn't been to save himself. It had been to save him, so that he could save England. Like destiny.

His eyes narrowed and Eve looked for the twin they had followed. He was on his knees digging in the ground, but didn't find anything.

He had something in his hand. It was hard to see from a distance but…"Merlin, is that a radio?"

"Yes," he answered.

Mallory looked at her, displeased that Merlin had refused to issue a Kingsman comm to him, forcing him to be one step behind.

"Well, do you have what he's saying Merlin?"

"Yes," Merlin said quietly. "It was tough—these guys know their stuff, but I've been listening for quite a while actually."

Eve frowned. It wasn't like Merlin to be so cryptic. "And?"

He didn't a chance to respond. Flecks of green light appeared in the park, followed by snapping and popping. The green swelled to a bright circle and died abruptly.

Where the circle had been, three people suddenly appeared. MI6's Bond (further research revealed he was a former double oh), MI6 Help Desk Agent Shaun Holmes, and a very weak man in a green cloak.

"Holy God," Eve said. It had been a wormhole!

Mallory looked vindicated. Their lead wasn't a wild goose chase after all.

But Eve hadn't let herself think far enough ahead to know what to do next. "Now what?"

* * *

"We have to leave immediately. If we stay Mephisto will guess that it’s here and all will be lost." Loki thought the only saving grace of the library stunt had been that Mephisto probably thought the Soul gem was there, since Loki had stayed so long. But it was at best a minor diversion.

"But it's not here," James said. "Nothing's here."

"But it is, in my universe," Q said. "I'm sure of it. In this exact spot."

Loki nodded. After so many ages looking for the damn thing he had practically given up. But the possibility of really finding it had given him enough strength to travel directly to the park (only after agreeing to bring Shaun and James along for the ride).

"The real thing will be the prime realm. This is just an…" what vapid word would humans understand? "An echo."

The radio came to life again. "I'm fifteen minutes out." The humans briefly explained it was their friend, Alec. The other one, Tanner, was even further.

"Wait for me and Tanner; don't go off half-cocked," Alec said.

Loki rolled his eyes. He had no use for an insecure control freak. This world didn't need its own Captain America. He spoke to Q, the one who had followed him through the prime Midgardian realm. "I suppose you want some kind of lift home?"

Q smiled nervously. "I'm a generous tipper and I don't side-seat drive."

Loki felt it start, before he saw anything. It wasn't the buzzing or crackling of static on his skin, the way it was when he traveled between these tears Mephisto had created. A storm of thick black clouds appeared, swirling and swooshing. "It's too late," he said. He had expended most of his energy getting them all here. He didn't have enough to get them back to the prime realm. Not yet.

The black clouds moved. They spread out, with purpose.

The pleasant warmth in the park morphed and twisted. It was hot and humid, and he felt it everywhere. The snow at his feet melted spontaneously. Loki saw a few people in homes overlooking the park - they drew their blinds shut, probably go to go hide and pray.

As the clouds moved, the revealed the Red Man himself. Mephisto.

Everything happened quickly. Mephisto murmured some vile, ancient words. The Daevas swooshed down and attacked. Loki felt the first slash on his forearm. Then another as he moved his wrist to defend his face. He had no weapons to fight with, and the Daevas had no form or substance to fight. Conjuring a tiny thread of strength, he used his oldest tricks, appearing on the other side of the park, then disappearing when the shadows neared, then appearing elsewhere. Physically, he had not moved an inch, but the Daevas were not intelligent creatures and they played his game.

When they tired of chasing Loki, they turned to the humans. Loki watched James throw Shaun to the ground and bear the brunt of the attack himself.

James's coat and trousers were torn into pieces in seconds. Shots fired in the night. Stupid human.

"Light!" Loki yelled, to no one in particular. Daevas were strongest at night, and an extreme light that blanketed all shadows could be a shield. But the humans couldn't exactly summon light, he thought. Must he do everything himself?

But Loki felt a twinge of guilt. The Daevas could have easily killed the human by now, but they hadn't—they were just toying with James. He was totally defenseless. Loki curled his fingers together and murmured some of his own magic. He reached his arm back and threw a ball of blinding light towards Daevas. The ball grew and exploded like a mushroom cloud and the Daevas hissed as they retreated.

Mephisto walked back into view. "Loki, Odinson, I'm disappointed in you."

"Who isn't?!" Loki roared.

"You are no friend of the Mad Titan—not after you failed to capture the Tesseract the first time. I had rather hoped you sought the soul gem for yourself, as a means to avenge the wrongs perpetrated against you. But it's not that at all, is it?"

"Thanos has a whole goon squad after me. I sought only to find a gift that would restore my favor with him." Unlike Thor, to him lying came as easily as breathing.

"That I could respect. But no, you seek the soul gem for another—for your Brother. So that he may destroy me." Mephisto walked closer still. His eyes widened, ever-white, as he basked in the feelings emitted by the gem, even when it was located in the same spot in a distant universe.

"I did not think this universe had any potential at all," he said. "Such weak magic…" he trailed off, his voice tinged in distaste. "But how wrong we both were. Because without so much other magical noise, so may red herrings and false signals, the only things powerful enough to emanate in this world would be the infinity gems."

Loki's eyes roamed the park. "Good guys" like Thor would not know this, but the Daevas did favors for no one. If they were following Mephisto's orders, there was a blood alter somewhere nearby controlling them. Mephisto would have to travel with the alter everywhere he went, no matter how awkward it would be to shuffle around.

Mephisto snapped his fingers and the Daevas surged back towards Loki. The moonlight illuminated the shadows of their invisible forms. Loki saw it—the altar, but it was too far away. He could project himself somewhere else to draw the Daevas attention, but Mephisto would see through his trick.

He exhaled slowly. Goodbye cruel world.

The vrooom of a mortal machine sounded, and the machine—a car, did they call it?—crashed through the park, right towards the Daevas. Its headlights enough brightness for them to whine and spit and veer to the sides.

Two mortals exited the vehicle, one dark-skinned woman carrying a bulky wand of light. And an older man with hard eyes who carried a small stick that appeared to be burning with hot pink light. They moved quickly in a circle, pouring light over the park, giving the Daevas no easy way towards them. The Daevas should have been stronger than that, faster than that, Loki thought. Then he realized that if a simple salt circle had been enough to contain Loki's magic, perhaps simple mortal light sources were enough to repel Daevas here.

It was still a temporary solution though. The Daevas could wait, and pitiful humans tired so quickly.

Mephisto grunted and stalked towards them. He had his hands around the throat of the man in seconds, lifting him above the ground. He needed no magical powers to kill. The woman pulled a gun and fired at Mephisto. So did James and Shaun, who had recovered enough to join in the fight. In the prime realm bullets would probably bounce off Mephisto like children's bubbles, but here they seemed to annoy him and he scowled.

And then Loki saw it. Q—the one from the prime realm—running towards the alter. He picked it up.

Mephisto saw it too late, mouth opening in fury.

Q smashed it to the ground. He stomped on it with his puny little feet, and kept stomping and smashing it.

And everything changed quickly once again.

Mephisto dropped the human male who had entered into their little drama.

The Daevas screamed, a high-pitched sound that had Loki and everyone else covering their ears. And then they swooped down to attack.

But they did not attack Loki, or James, or Shaun, or Q, or dark skinned woman.

They went right for Mephisto.

They lifted him up in the air, surrounding him in their dark shadows, and Mephisto's screams filled the night. What followed were the sounds of nightmares: crunching and gnawing and tearing and chewing. The darkness around them grew and the clouds stormed. Mephisto was trying to make a run for it, back to a universe where he would have enough power to fight back. Then they all disappeared together, Mephisto and the Daevas.

The humans and Loki remained in the park, and the hellish heat cooled back into a comforting glow. Loki took a moment to bask in the energy emitted by the soul gem, even from another universe.

"So, we killed him?" Q said uncertainly.

"No," Loki said. "He'll survive the Daevas, and he'll return for the soul gem. We've just bought ourselves a little time."

It would be easier, Loki thought, to just give up and let Mephisto have it. There was peace in knowing success was futile. It was so much harder to know they had an actual chance of winning, and a responsibility not to give up.

He didn't like humans, he didn't like Earth, and most of the time he didn't like Thor. But letting Thor inevitably fight Mephisto and die? Apparently it was just horrible enough to expose the last humiliating strands of decency and love that Loki had left.

He would find the gem before Mephisto. And with it, Thor could defeat the Red Devil and everything would go back to normal. Not that Loki remembered anymore what normal was. Something about Thor never taking his side, and Loki being cruel and vengeful about it, he supposed.

What else was there?

* * *

James felt like hell. Or more accurately, felt that a monster from Hell had been a few centimeters away from removing his heart from the cradle in his body.

Shaun helped hold him up. "You stupid, stupid, stupid man," he whispered.

James ignored him. This was his job. If he wasn't a double oh, if he didn't put his life on the line for England, then there were only two people in the world that he would die for: Rory and Shaun.

And, he thought optimistically, he was pretty sure his wounds were not fatal, anyway.

They all formed a circle. James. Shaun. Q. Loki. And…

"Moneypenny, M, you made it!!!" Q grinned.

They did not seem equally pleased to see him. "Someone had better tell us what the hell is going on," Moneypenny said. "Every person in a kilometer radius as phoned police, Kingsmen are coming, and MI6 as well."

Loki said it was time to leave, and he made no childish pretense about leaving Q behind. It was the right thing, of course. Q had to go home to his world, where apparently some bastard, emotionless version of himself did not love him.

That rankled James nerves—had for days. There, Loki and Q would acquire the soul gem before Mephisto. They could try to simply hide it, but Mephisto could do plenty of damage with the other three stones. No, they had to use the soul gem to fight Mephisto and eliminate him. James didn't understand the physics of it, or the magic of it, but he followed the strategy.

If Loki and Q failed—if something went wrong or someone else interfered—Mephisto could still destroy everything and everyone. He could still destroy Rory and Shaun. James knew he wasn't a God, or even a young healthy man. He was actually quite injured. But he was still 007 in his heart of hearts. They were going to need his help.

He rested his head against Shaun's. "When I get back, let's get married. Yes?"

Shaun snapped his head back, nearly colliding with James's. His mouth gaped like a surprised goldfish. The marriage part probably caught on first. And then James registered the moment the whole sentence sunk in. _When I get back_.

"Sorry, love." He held Shaun's hand. With his other, he touched a small trigger on his custom watch—a gift from Shaun of course—and a tiny pin pricked the skin between Shaun's glove and his jacket arm. Shaun wobbled and Moneypenny and the man—James refused to think of him as M —caught him.

So much for Shaun making him some deadly little trinket for a wedding gift. James would probably be paying for that stunt for the next ten years. But he couldn’t let Shaun stop him.

"Hold down the fort until I get back?" James asked of Moneypenny and M. He turned on his radio and transmitted to Alec and Tanner, giving them the same instruction. Alec shouted at him to wait. He said he would go instead. But James just couldn't. He didn't trust anyone else to get the job done. He stood next to Loki and Q.

"You know, technically no one invited you," Loki grumbled. "Traveling with the two of you is going to be like having two heavy monkeys attached to my back."

Q eyed James warily. "Are you sure about this? Alternate universes aren't all they're cracked up to be."

James huffed. "Someone has to fix all the damage asshole-Me has inflicted over there. Might as well be me."

Q's eyes widened and James tensed, ready for action.

"Hold on, we can't leave yet!" Q regarded Moneypenny curiously. "I know this may sound ludicrous but I _have_ to know. Are Eggsy and a bloke named Harry Hart together, here?"

Moneypenny bit the inside of her cheek, looking quite suspicious.

"Yes, then? They're totally in love?"

James heard buzzing in the air and the hairs on his arm stood up straight. It was starting.

"Yes," Moneypenny said. "Nauseatingly, in love."

James was dizzy and when he looked back to Shaun one last time, the world had gotten blurry. It was all blurry, and emerald green, and…Q was the only thing he could see now.

Q gulped. "Hold onto your diamond cuff links, James."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next chapter:  
> The minions missed Q!  
> Bond really, really missed Q!  
> Bond and Thor have a drink (or two)!  
> Tracks A and C start to collide!


	6. Jumping Tracks

Track Change

* * *

Track C  


* * *

James spent the bulk of the day with the Mallorys. While they were inside the building the risk was extremely low. But after what Mycroft had said about advanced disguises…well, James wasn't taking any chances.

He was as vigilant as he would have been in the open air, in a busy marketplace.

And Mallory and his wife didn't seem to mind. The young child, Daniel, seemed expert at hiding in James vicinity. He would occasionally pop his head out to surveil James, and when James caught him he would immediately hide again.

Like a game, James though belatedly. Even when he was a child, James didn't care for child's games. Most of them required a playmate and Skyfall hadn't exactly been a family-friendly neighborhood.

James was offered quarters next to John and Sherlock, which wasn't coincidence. Mycroft had become surprisingly sentimental in war, James thought. Sherlock too, come to think of it. James declined he offer, until the message-giver shared that this afternoon, his eleven cats had been safety evacuated and moved into the building.

"Mycroft sent a cadre of assassins to safety evacuate the cats?"

"Yes, sir."

Not just soft, then. Mycroft was losing his bloody mind.

Sure enough, three cats were waiting in James' new quarters, and three in John's quarters. The rest, according to John, had the run of Q-branch with Sherlock. James pet them all affectionately. They already had food and water set out for them.

John had a simple dinner prepared, but they were waiting on Sherlock. "Fancy a trip to Q-branch to collect him?" John asked. "He probably thinks it's still morning."

Sherlock probably still thought it was Tuesday (it was Saturday) but James didn't say anything.

John stumbled, "I mean, if you don't want to go—"

"It's fine."

Sherlock had taken up residence in Q's—in Shaun's old basement workspace. By Sherlock's orders, he would respond to his given name, or Quartermaster. Never Q. Bond appreciated it. There would be many Quartermasters in MI6's future—he hoped—but only one Q. He knew it was only a title, but he had never gotten used to calling Shaun by his given name. It sounded so young at the time—it had made James feel old.

_"You can call me Shaun, you know." He was snuggling in a very warm, very expensive robe Bond had brought over with him. It had been Shaun's birthday, not that either of them were acknowledging that Bond had looked it up, remembered, and went shopping. Acknowledging such acts, calling him by his first name…these were things that would make it all real._

_Bond wrapped an arm around him and kissed him until he was out of breath. He stayed close, bopping their noses together. "I'm not ready." The words tasted sour on his tongue and he added, "Yet."_

Sherlock looked up. He was surrounded by organized chaos—overstuffed cupboards, scrawled notes everywhere, and a human skull on his desk. His eyes were wild. "Oh good. I need to speak with both of you."

They followed Sherlock into his office.

Sherlock waved his hands animatedly. "Something's wrong. I mean, obviously something's wrong. But something is _really_ wrong."

John put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, silently emitting calm.

Sherlock brushed the hand away. "I can't explain it! Except I can, but every time I try I forget the words." He sounded grave. "Can't explain, need to explain."

James pursed his lips in disapproval. Sherlock was on something—that much was obvious. He cast an accusatory glance at John Watson. If Q were alive, he'd be livid, and the thought alone made James want to hit something.

Sherlock's voice lowered. He appeared to be forcing himself to stay still. "There's other worlds—like this world, but not our world, but we're there, and they're there. And..." he trailed off. "What was I saying?"

John wrapped up Sherlock in a hug, which Sherlock did not fight, and soothed him. "It's all right. You just need some sleep, love. And some food. It'll all be alright."

But James locked eyes with Sherlock. He wasn't high, James realized. He was frustrated, confused, angry and even a little scared. Sherlock, scared. Silently James agreed with Sherlock's unspoken reply. Nothing was alright.

"Would you get me a cup of tea?" Sherlock asked, meekly.

John quickly agreed and left them alone for a moment.

James didn't bother with small talk. He had heard enough through the grapevine, as much as James maneuvered to avoid such things. Sherlock was brilliant at the job. And he was miserable on the job. It wasn't what Sherlock was meant to be doing. A far cry from his days as an independent investigator and pain in Scotland Yard's arse. A younger Sherlock probably would have taken a diver off a building than work for Mycroft. But he did it, and only with hourly complaint. It was a miracle.

"It's not going to be alright," Sherlock said. "Bond, there is a real possibility that we're going to lose the war."

James eyes darkened.

"There is a sixty five percent chance that in six months, London will be Soviet-ocuppied, and everyone in this building will be dead or wishing it so. I'm not exaggerating, and I'm not wrong. All of this will be over, and relatively soon." Sherlock drummed his fingers on the desk.

"What can I do?"

"Leave." He let that sink in. "Mycroft is arranging it. He refuses to go himself, something bull-headed about going down with the ship, but you, me, John and Greg will all leave, in one month's time. The cats too," he added. "The Falklands are still independent, and war won't come to there, at least not for a long time. There is a remote property in the countryside being prepared. We should be safe there, for a while."

"And if I refuse to leave England?" He'd rather go down fighting, if it came to it. He wouldn't even mind if Mycroft was the last person fighting beside him.

"You'd refuse to protect us? John's willing, but with his leg injury less than able. There's a reason he hasn't been shipped out in so long, and it's not just Mycroft. We need you."

John returned with tea for all of them.

James was lost in his thoughts, which was close to his own personal hell.

He hated being in his own head. Much like Alec, he'd rather just toss a grenade about and see what happened.

Sherlock could be wrong, he reasoned. He was wrong plenty of the time—people were so obsessed with his brilliance that they too easily forgot when his deductions were false. And whether Sherlock was on drugs or too much coffee or not enough sleep, he was clearly not at best.

He could be wrong, he repeated silently. And even if he wasn't wrong, James wasn't sure he could be safely evacuated like some civilian, even if was under the guise of guarding Q's family. There _was_ such a thing as a man's time to die, and when it came, a man should embrace it. Sherlock had once said something similar.

And he felt pang of guilt about the Mallorys. They were his charges. What would happen to them, to the little boy?

He drifted in and out through dinner, and the rest of the evening. He slept only briefly, and when he did he dreamed of Q.

* * *

Track A

Monaghan sat behind her desk mahogany desk, fuming. It was barely dawn, but already five of her most senior staff surrounded her, mostly to keep her from murdering the _other_ two people in the room.

Namely, 007, soon to be demoted merely to Alec Trevelyan. And some middle-aged nurse called Tanner, who was deferential but surprisingly not cowering.

"Have you lost your bloody mind?" she raged at 007. "We have witness statements swearing they saw everything from a Red Devil, to green wormholes, to black shadow monsters with claws." The last one had mostly been described by frightened children, but she wouldn't put it past the realm of possibility. Not anymore. "And," she said, "a dark haired man, dressed strangely in green and gold. Who does that sound like?" She was practically spitting.

"I tried to get them to wait, ma'am," Alec said.

"You stupid boy. You should have come to your superiors the moment you heard anything that would shed light on this investigation."

Alec's nostrils flared. "Yes, ma'am." He shifted his feet. "I tried to tell them—"

"I hear an awful lot of trying. Do you think trying your best counts for anything here?" She had bloody Prince Charles in her ear, swearing he had seen Diana walking around Buckingham palace like a ghost, and _security footage had confirmed it_. She faced the nurse, Tanner. "Do you have anything relevant to add, something that might save your career, perhaps?"

Tanner kept his eyes down and forward, but spoke calmly and without defensiveness. "I don't believe there's any precedent for MI6 employees traveling to alternate realities, ma'am. Everyone involved acted in what they believed was best for England."

He might have fit in quite well up here, she thought. Too bad he had the same spectacularly bad judgment as his friends.

She had Shaun Holmes in custody of course. There were rumors of two others at the scene—but they had managed to evade capture. But no James Bond. "And now, if you’re to be believed, James Bond has left this reality and traveled with Loki and the other Shaun Holmes to another universe? To collect some mythical, powerful jewel and fight this man named Mephisto?"

Tanner and Alec each nodded.

M relieved them both of duty, taking particular scorn with Alec. She should have never promoted him to double oh in the first place—insubordination she could occasionally stomach, but not incompetence. And keeping her out the loop this time was definitely the latter.

She made it clear they were both to remain on premises, even if they not actually under arrest, yet.

Q raised his hand. "If all this is correct, then things are going to get worse before they get better. I could use every able-bodied hand in Q-Branch, managing the chaos." He cast an eye to Shaun Holmes, his former boss.

"Agreed. Shaun Holmes will be released into your custody, to help however he may. I'm promoting him to R." He was too smart and too patriotic to sit rotting in a cell, she wasn't an idiot.

Hell, if Bond pulled this off she wasn't opposed to giving him back his old designation. It was now available, after all.

Q seemed surprised she had relented so easily but didn't push his luck.

Her secretary knocked on the door. "Gareth Mallory for you, ma'am, in person. He says it's urgent."

She waved him in. He looked far better than she remembered. Still a little dazed and tired perhaps, but he wore a bespoke suit without tugging at it nervously, and his grooming had much improved too. He no longer looked the part of a prisoner of war.

Mallory caught Alec's eyes, and stared at him intensely.

The air seemed to be sucked from the room.

"Something wrong?" Alec said bitterly.

Mallory asked to have the room, and she agreed. Everyone left. Mallory didn't seem to relax until Alec was gone from the room.

He didn't mince words. "It's all wrong, M."

M didn't argue. She watched Mallory, whose eyes roamed the room with curiosity and…suspicion. "You're perfectly safe to talk here, Mr. Mallory, but I'm afraid I'm going to ask you to get to the point."

"Something. Isn't. Right." He said every word slowly. He ran a hand through thinning hair. "It's hard to explain."

"Can you give an example?"

Something appeared to click in his brain. "This office." He swung his arms about. "These windows. It's too open.  Too dangerous." He waved his hands about. "Your secretary, she wasn't carrying a sidearm…"

She furrowed her brow. "I'm sure the adjustment back to civilian life is difficult. I can't imagine." She wasn't even frowning right now—it was the gentlest look she was capable of emoting. "But this isn't a military installation. We're an intelligence organization."

"We're at war," he said darkly.

She shivered in spite of herself.

But before she could say anything, the spark in his eyes went out and he drifted into confusion again. "What was I saying…What was I saying…"

She pressed a plain button on her desk. Her secretary entered. She assured Mr. Mallory that his needs would be seen to, and watched him leave.

M declined to note the incident in her daily records. Even sane people were going mad in light of recent events. She could scarcely imagine the impact on someone with profound PTSD.

She ordered a fresh cup of tea, and carried on about her day.

* * *

Track C

After leaving M's office, Mallory had set off to go back to his temporary living quarters. Something had been so wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on it. It was like his brain was in a fog.

Eve and Daniel would center him. He just needed his family.

He felt particular comforted as he observed the armed guards throughout the hallways. The concrete, reinforced hallways. Everything looked right and felt right. He was safe and secure inside the goliath British Intelligence complex, formerly MI6. Where had he been, just now?

Right, he remembered. He had gone to see M. But what about? He felt terribly embarrassed. England was at war, his family was hanging by a thread, and there he was abandoning the latter to badger the head of MI6 with…something.

He couldn't remember what…

For a moment, he had been sure Alec Trevelyan — the Russian traitor himself—was in M's office, like old times. That was crazy! And the people—the civilians—around here. And something about windows…

He hadn't enough sleep, he decided. He reached his new shoebox of a home, where Eve and Daniel had fallen asleep. Paranoid, he made sure they were breathing. They were. He curled up next to them on the bed and forgot all about his detour to M's office, and whatever he had gone to see her about.

* * *

Track B

By a stroke of luck, they did _not_ materialize in the center of Q-Branch. In fact they appeared to be north of the 20th floor, where the big wigs worked in their corner offices.

The beige, nondescript office was at the moment was thankfully unoccupied.

Like last time, the trip made Q feel as though he had been stuck inside a twirling clothes dryer. For days. And feel like thirty IQ points had been misplaced in the process.

Q sank into the office chair and focused on not vomiting. He was dimly aware of Loki next to them, muttering, "Amateurs."

"I thought we were shooting for the park?"

In a sign of perhaps how far their working relationship had come in a few hours, Loki merely rolled his eyes instead of glaring. "The Avengers are no doubt still using that…signal…contraption to lure me back here. It is very hard to ignore at a conscious level." He rested against the desk. "You're lucky we managed a scrap of privacy at all."

James lied down on the floor. "I've made a huge mistake."

"You'll live." Q hesitated. "Right?"

"Probably," he wheezed. "What's the treatment for a collapsed lung?"

He wasn't serious, Q decided. This James was actually funny, in a more traditional way than Bond, 007. "Oxycodone and alcohol."

"Brilliant, I'll take two of each."

Low sounds of men talking could be heard nearby. A half-eaten burrito on the desk indicated its occupant could return at any moment. Q went to pull James up, and Loki helped. Q was surprised.

Loki read him like an open book. "No one would believe you, anyway."

Q had a flash of genius and went to a small closet on the back wall. He grabbed a long wool coat—thank God for winter fashions—and Loki put it on. Q left the office first, acting as a lookout. He popped his head back in. "Okay, we're moving."

"Where'r we going?" James mumbled.

"Your office."

"I have an office?"

* * *

 _Bloody Hell_ , James thought.

He had only been half joking about making a huge mistake.

And he very much regretted how carelessly they had treated Q when he had shown up in Medical. This wormhole business was the mother fucker of all hangovers. Enough to have him seriously considering putting off alcohol forever, and he hadn't even drank anything all day.

The first, plain office had a window. James had gotten a brief look at the skyline. Still appeared to be London, and that was a relief. He wasn't sure if Q had been holding back salient details about his universe, like hover boards or aliens or red skies.

Now they were in a different MI6 office, three floors below. Supposedly Bond's office, but Q assured James that this Bond probably didn't know where his own office was either, and it was bound to have a layer of dust on it.

Q said something about covering his tracks and causing brief interruptions in the cameras, but James didn't hear all of it. He had a feeling his reflexes were shot to hell.

Then Q said he had to go show his face and explain a few things before people got too suspicious.

James didn't like it, but wasn't in a position to physically protest. "I don't suppose we can trust good old Nurse Tanner to stop by with that Oxycodone?"

"Erm, no. I'll be back in a few hours. I'll do what I can about getting you some supplies in the meantime."

Scientists say that thirty days without sleep will kill a man (although there have never been volunteers for a formal study). If that was true, James thought Loki looked like a man who had not slept in about twenty nine days. But Loki still tried to convince Q that they needed to depart for the park, immediately. "Mephisto has only been slowed down. He knows where the stone is."

"And if we run out here like bats out of hell, M will think we're all evil, bad!Twin, clone-people who are working for you, and shoot us all before we reach the car park."

"Humans." Loki's face soured.

"I need to talk to them first. Explain about the blue one and the red one and purple one and the whole Skittles rainbow of doom we're dealing with."

James weakly nodded his agreement. That was about his understanding of the technical side of it all. James tried to say more, but he was asleep before the door closed behind Q.

* * *

Feeling fairly confident that James and Loki would remain hidden, Q took the elevator all the way down to the basement. He fidgeted nervously, like he was fifteen minutes late to work. The wormhole jetlag was actually starting to fade—look at him, afraid to fly on an airplane, but becoming a seasoned traveler of alternate universes. He could write a self-help book.

The elevator opened with a ding. He rounded the corner, and walked down the center aisle of Q-Branch. A wave of relief crashed over him. Oh, thank the Lord, he was home.

Minions swarmed him, and hugged him, and buzzed questions in his ear.

R stood behind them with a smile on his face. "Good to see you, sir."

"Elvis sends his regards."

The minions all exploded into a thousand more questions, and Q stuck his finger out for R for a pinprick, for a formal identification. The DNA results came back in moments—he passed, of course.

"But, sir, how do we really know it's you?" Katey asked. "How do we know you're not a different Q from another dimension?"

A hushed silence descended upon them.

There was actually _nothing_ he could do to assure them of that, assuming the existence of infinite universes where no single data point could be assumed to be unique. Technically, he could have drifted into an extremely similar but different universe, whose Q had _also_ followed Loki through a wormhole in similar circumstances. "Hmm. I see your point. It's an unsolvable problem."

They nodded earnestly.

"I suppose it's only fair to put it to a vote," R said. "All in favor of accepting this instance of Q as ours, on a probationary basis?"

Q didn't mind that not every hand rose in the air. He loved his staff, including the paranoid skeptics. Especially the paranoid skeptics. "Best to do a smoke test then. Make sure I'm still fit for the job. I need one person to volunteer to get Thor down here. Yes, thank you Addy. Everyone else, you have open permission to quiz me on anything that me—as Q—should know. Let the madness begin!"

* * *

Mallory jolted at the sound of the intercom. "Yes, Ms. Moneypenny?"

"Q's back, sir."

"About bloody time."

He gathered Moneypenny and Tanner and they made fast time to Q-Branch. Thor and Captain America were already there. Q was in the center of the room, looking a bit green and a lot tired. He was fielding ridiculous questions from Q-Branch staff.

"…95909216420198."

Mallory parted the white-labcoated crowd like it was the Red Sea and he was Moses. "The number of problems we have?" he guessed.

"Five hundred digits of Pi," Q said, embarrassed.

"We're 94.5% sure it's him, sir," R reported.

It would not really have occurred to M that it was _not_ Q. Who had time for that shit? "All junior level personnel: take a coffee break."

They scattered but not without complaint.

"Report, Q." Mallory thought he showed a great deal of restraint by not chewing out Q for risking his very valuable life and abandoning them in the midst of a global crisis. Discipline was one of the few perks of old age.

Q nodded. "Erm, I can't yet, sir. I actually need to talk to Thor."

"Are you taking the piss?" Discipline had apparently been eroded by insomnia. "The BBC is reporting images of Arnold Schwarzenegger as the President of the United States every third hour, on the hour, like clockwork. Report, Q."

Q crouched defensively. "Yes, sir, all over it, sir. But really, I need to talk to Thor, first. Sir."

Mallory pinched his nose.

"Tanner?" Q asked. "You don't happen to have a nursing background do you?"

"What?"

"Never mind."

Eve stepped in, her calm voice keeping the tension from exploding. "Right. Is there anything you need from us in the meantime?" She seemed to be sending him some message with her eyes. Mallory would have guessed, _give us something useful to do, or Mallory will strangle you._

Q popped his head up. "Yes, actually. Please secure," he went to his computer and brought a map, "this neighborhood park. Minions, I need to know instantly if any unusual activity is reported in the area." He took one last guilty look towards M.

"You do know, _Shaun_ ," Mallory used the quartermaster's first name intentionally, "that in some dimensions, you working for me means you actually report to me?"

Q gulped and steered Thor by the arm into one of the side offices. The door was shut.

"I hate magic," Mallory said under his breath. "I feel like I haven't slept in twenty nine days and I just hate magic."

Moneypenny touched his arm, tentatively. She gave him a small smile. Oh, no, why did it all feel so comforting? A few seconds passed.

M caught one of the Q-Branch minions staring at him—at them—and pulled his arm back. "Right. No one likes a micromanager. I'll be trying to avert WWIII upstairs. Text me if you need me." He walked off quickly, silently conveying his desire for Moneypenny not to follow.

Back in the safety of the elevator, Mallory let out his breath. He hadn't even realized he had been holding it in. Well, the stuff about micromanaging was true. He had good people who could handle themselves. If anyone was going to save the world, well, it was probably going to be the Avengers. But damn it, MI6 was going to help.

* * *

"And you trust him?" Thor asked.

Q had informed Thor of the (pertinent) developments in the alternate universe.

"Does that make me crazy? I'm asking, really."

Thor was subdued, but managed a smile. "My fellow Avengers think me so, that I continue to want to trust him." He idly swung the hammer. "You made a promise to me before you left, and you have certainly done your part to fulfill it. My gratitude, Master of Quarters. But with so much resting on the fate of this battle, I am not sure my judgement alone—the judgment of a brother—suffices. This is your realm; your people should have a voice."

Q sighed. He doubted the Avengers would be able to be any more objective about Loki. "How about we start with getting the soul gem? I can send you out with a team of double ohs to retrieve it and get it back here for safe-keeping. This Mephisto is very real, and a very real problem, and we don't want him to have it."

"Aye," Thor said. "My father has told me stories about them since I was a boy. Not stories of fact, but of myth and legend. If he is real, he must not be allowed to possess an infinity stone."

"Besides the three he already has."

"Of course. I know not how he came to acquire the rest. I will send word to Asgard to investigate. But the opening of realms not even thought to exist appears to prove that he does possess a great power. He must be stopped; I do not argue this."

"But?"

Thor cast his eyes down, appearing in lost in thought. "I wonder if all is not as it appears. I wonder if Loki still has one last trick to play on us."

They returned to the open space of Q-Branch. Q and Thor filled everyone in. Q shared what they knew about Mephisto, and what he was doing and how and why, and how to stay one step ahead of him. By agreement, they left out details of Loki's and James' location within MI6. Q would keep those two on the down low just a little while longer, until the timing was right. Mephisto was a lot to take in by himself.

Q finally managed to get back to the upper floors to check on James and Loki. They were gone. "Bullocks."

* * *

It had been almost four days since Q had disappeared. Bond didn't think it was possible to be this fucking destroyed. And by the loss of someone whom he really didn't even know. Not even a friend. A colleague at best, whom Bond had taken for granted just like every other person at MI6.

Day one had been frantic. Bond had demanded to be read-in on the entire situation and Mallory had relented. Bond had spent the entire day in Q-Branch with the techies, both wanting to help and wanting to be there when Q inevitably returned. The techies all gave him a wide berth at first, appearing to think him a dim-witted, trigger-pulling pretty face. He had quickly demonstrated otherwise. No one gets in to the double oh program without considerable smarts backing them up. Just because wormhole physics wasn't his favorite hobby didn't mean it couldn't be, if given time and motivation. And he had both. Twenty hour hours later, they had concluded that Loki had not simply materialized in some other location on Earth. Q was neither living it up in Rio, nor stranded on an island paradise. If he was using instantaneous Asgardian wormholes, then he was not simply traveling directly from city to another.

And in all probability, that meant traveling to other dimensions.

Day two had been impossible. Impossible to sit still any longer (he tossed one of the physics hardcover textbooks out a window). Impossible to do nothing, punch nothing, shoot no one. Because the longer he stayed still, the more it crept in: guilt. Q wasn't a field agent. If anyone had the responsibility to chase Loki in some unfathomable, other, not-Earthly place, it was Bond. Q had a mortgage, he had said. And a cat. And was afraid of flying. What had he been thinking?

Bond had paced and drummed his fingers and spent three hours in the shooting range. If Bond hadn't left after Spectre—hadn't left them all to clean up the mess of C and Blofeld—he would have been in on this mission from day one. He would have been the focus of Loki's ire. Q would have been where he belonged: in the back, in the lab, nice and safe.

They tracked additional signals that day—probably Loki, but none in Europe. Loki was successfully avoiding them, for now.

Day three had been surreal. First, he had returned to Q's flat, and asked Olaf, the elderly doorman, to ring Eggsy. He told Eggsy that Q was out of town unexpectedly. Eggsy had gone to get a spare key, and Bond squelched a rush of jealousy that Eggsy had such a thing. They let themselves into this flat, and Eggsy set about giving the cat fresh food and water. He called for the thing in a high voice, "Mothra!" and knew right where Q kept the food and little square cat treats.

Bond had stood stiffly, not sure how to help. Eggsy clearly had this all under control. Eggsy was rambling on that Bond was lucky to have caught him; he had just gotten back from a business trip himself.

Bond realized Eggsy had ceased his rambling, and was looking at him, concerned.

"I get called away on business quite a bit actually—rich blokes who pay for us to come to them. So just in case." He lifted the lid on the jar of cat treats, and dug around towards the bottom of the bin. "Here," he said, giving Bond a key. "It's the second spare."

Bond accepted it wordlessly.

Eggsy left moments later, and Bond had stayed in the flat for a while. The cat, Mothra, had meowed loudly, but every time Bond made a move to pet her, she ran off, just a little. When she was out of reach, she looked at him expectantly. She wagged her tail and thwapped it on the thick carpet. She didn't actually seem afraid of people at all. Bond was 95% sure this cat was goading him, making him work for her affections. He had half a mind to leave her. He didn't. The things we do for—

Anyway, eventually she nuzzled her head against his shoes and allowed a few rubs to her head. She purred, and Bond told her that he would try to bring Q home.

Back at MI6, Bond returned to Q-Branch. He was slightly more welcome, now. On days one and two, he had made a point to learn the names of every techie that was brave enough to come and talk to him. He said hello to Addy and Chris and Daniella and Ted and Phillip. Addy brought him tea. Thor had arrived soon after. Some childish, irrational part of Bond didn't like Thor; it was Thor's brother's fault that all of this was happening.

"Care to join me in sparring, Mr. Bond?"

Over the next hour, Bond realized Thor could have easily smashed him through a wall at any time. Instead, Thor patiently allowed Bond to hit and kick himself into a state of exhaustion. By the end, Bond was sweating tears, and despite landing a few excellent blows at his opponent, Thor still looked like an underwear model.

 _Note to self_ , Bond thought, _hand to hand combat with an Asgardian warrior is a losing position. Must find some other way to defeat him_.

"Care to join me for a drink, Mr. Bond?"

And that's how Bond found a way to, if not defeat Thor, at least level the playing field. Two hours later, Thor shared Q's promise to try to stop but not kill Loki. Thor appeared very touched when he recounted the story, and for the second time that day, Bond felt a stab of jealousy. Not even in the romantic sense. Eggsy and Thor and the techies in Q-Branch—they were Q's friends. And Bond, what had Moneypenny said? He was just the person who used him, who "got him to risk his entire career for nothing more than a charming smile in return." He didn't even deserve to miss Q, not like his real friends did.

Day four had been pathetic.

Bond remembered the young shrink, the one with the white hair and black nails who had said nothing to him at all, and appeared dumbfounded when _he_ might be the one to speak in their session. He found her office at 5:00 AM and waited for her to arrive to work. He didn't have an appointment, but she let him in right away. Without being told, he sat on the patient's sofa. She did her "no talking" thing again. It was effective.

"I think I need to talk about something," he said.

"Erm. I just started last week. Maybe someone more exper—"

"No."

"But, see, I'm only an intern, and I'm pretty sure they gave you to me to make me quit. I can't officially re-certify you, or prescribe narcotics or—"

"I wouldn't bother with a prescription," he said under his breath.

"Or, you could just tell me what's on your mind."

And she just listened. And it was quite nice. Like that lovely little mouse in Algiers, he had explained. That probably came out wrong, and he reassured her he was not comparing her to a rodent, but she didn't seem offended. "So what do you think?" he asked.

She was so frugal with giving her opinions, it made him actually want to hear them.

She was thoughtful. "Sounds like he's not the only one with a crush. And it sounds like he's a total cinnamon roll; you should go for it. You know, if he lives." She winced.

Bond had a bad taste in his mouth. "But this isn't some fairytale. I'm always going to be 007 and he's always going to be Q and anything we start is going to end, badly." If it hasn't already.

He made reoccurring appointments for the next three weeks and sent a note to Moneypenny to make sure she was hired full time.

Moneypenny promised to, but only if he went home, showered, and got six hours of sleep.

It wasn't the worst idea. Certainly there was nothing he could do here to help, anymore.

The winter cold seeped into his whole body, making him stiff and sore. He turned on the shower as hot as it would go, but the heat didn't reach him.

He missed his mobile buzzing while he was in the shower. He checked the voicemail straight away. Q was back. Q had reappeared! Bond let himself collapse onto the bed, wet hair and all, and let out the tension from the last four days. He was alive. He was home. He was alive. He was home. And Bond finally felt a hint of warmth.

He raced back to MI6.

He ran into Tanner first. "You look nice," Tanner said. "I take it you heard?"

Bond confirmed Q was down in Q-Branch—where else?—and was off.

Moneypenny was waiting for him when the elevator door opened. "You look nice." She looked him over from head to toe.

"I always look nice," he said smugly.

Fine, he had made a _bit_ more of an effort, perhaps. But nothing special.

"Really nice," she reiterated.

"Just a shower," he said quickly and evaded her. Where was Q?

He rounded the corner. The branch was in full swing, people running about and typing furiously. In the back center desk, right where he should be, was Q. He was focused on his laptop, pushing away dark curls that kept falling in front of his face. Bond wasn't sure how he could see, which those long eyelashes. Bond approached slowly, suddenly very unsure of what to say. Though Bond made no noise, Q looked up. They locked eyes.

"Welcome back," Bond said. His heart beat faster.

Q, thank God, no longer had the cool demeanor from when Bond had first returned to MI6. Maybe he was just too tired. Bond noted the dark circles under his eyes and quickly looked for any signs of injuries, not caring if his observations were obvious.

"I'm alright," Q assured him. He gestured in Bond's direction. "You going out on a mission? You look…great." It was all incredibly awkward.

"Apparently I just need to shower more often," Bond said quietly. "So, where have you been?"

Q slowly explained about trapping Loki again and the infinity gems and Mephisto and the mass plan to steal people's souls. The longer he talked the more comfortable he became. But he was leaving something out, too. Bond was sure of it. Q said that three double ohs had gone with Thor to retrieve the stone, and were encountering some technical difficulties, as it were, but no supernatural hostiles.

"When all this is over," Bond said. "We should talk."

A red flush crept from the back of Q's neck, around and across his face. "Yeah, that's probably overdue."

Bond wanted to kiss him, obviously. It would start innocent. He wanted to kiss the pink on his nose, with just a peck. And then his forehead, while wrapping his arms around him and willing him to never to leave again. And then his mouth, which would just make him wild, and then he'd go down on his knees and suck him off in one of the offices of Q-Branch. All of this, he could do, wanted to do.

He was great at doing.

If only Bond knew what he was going to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next chapter:  
> Thor and Loki snark at each other!  
> James tries to fix Bond's life!  
> James wonders what a Hulk is!  
> Moneypenny and Mallory try to arrest everybody!  
> Track A and C continue to collide, with a major casualty!


End file.
